Ticket & Dixon & Split Heads

“Something awful has happened!” Bev exclaimed. “Ticket says his brother has been killed.”

“Get Misael over here,” I shouted as I grabbed a towel. I had been taking my regular evening bath in the big galvanized tub we used for a bathtub, washing off the salt, sweat, and dirt that accumulate quickly in the humid heat. Bev had come back from the door looking white and shaken with this disconcerting news.

The lantern cast ominous shadows as I wrapped the bathrobe bout me and stepped out into the darkness. Ticket, Misael and some others were waiting in a somber, silent half-circle. Ticket looked downright scared as Misael uncertainly began.

It seemed that three weeks before, when Ticket had been working for me at Nsenga school, 60 miles away, Dixon, a neighbor, had insulted Ticket’s wife. When Ticket got home and learned bout it, he began to plot against Dixon. Just the past evening, he caught Dixon alone and proceeded to clobber him with his Tonga axe.

I could imagine that. The Tonga axe is a beautiful tool and a terrible weapon. The gracefully curving handle is fashioned from the supple branch of a tree. The blade of Ticket’s axe, big as my open palm, was beaten from the tempered steel of a Land Rover leaf-spring.

Handling an axe is one thing at which the Tonga really excel. So I had visions of Dixon lying in a pool of blood with his head split open.

However, it proved that the Tonga are made of sterner stuff, at least their heads are. Ticket had struck one blow, downed his enemy, and then, satisfied that his wife’s honor was vindicated; he lit out for healthier territory. Dixon eventually regained consciousness, staggered back to his village, displayed the bloody gash on his black, wooly head to his relatives and declared war. With blood in their eyes, he and his friends descended onto Ticket’s village where James, Ticket’s brother, was innocently holding fort. Sensing trouble and fearing for his old father who was with him, he stepped out, unarmed, with a “Here, what’s this all about?” attitude. One of the relatives proceeded to show him so vigorously that it was now feared that James was dead.

I issued quick instructions, ran back into the house, jumped into my pants, and then with Ticket carrying the First Aid kit and Misael holding a powerful sealed-beam flashlight, we went bouncing down the road to the village of Ticket’s family, four miles from the mission. We left the car at the road, and, with Ticket balancing the First Aid kit on his head like a safari porter and leading the way, we single-filed through the deep, dark grass. I began to think I had been rash in leaving my revolver behind and later I was to think so even more. I had done it deliberately, thinking these primitive people might think it meant that I was afraid…and I didn’t want them to find it out.

We heard the wailing long before we came in sight of the flickering campfire, and I supposed James had died, but we arrived to find him conscious, lying by the fire and covered with a blanket. His family was gathered around looking sad while his wife was wailing a mournful death chant that ranged up and down the scales with nerve-wracking monotony. He hadn’t bled much. On top of his head was a neat, clean, three-inch incision mde by the axe blade. His wailing wife sniffed back her tears, and as I shined the flashlight down for a better look, she leaned up and pulled the edges of the wound apart so I could look in. I gagged and shoved her away.

“I-kona, no!” I exclaimed. His skull was split open and I could see into the brain cavity! I swallowed my stomach, squeezed some Baciguent ointment on the incision, and then carefully tied his head together with two triangular bandages, thankful for my First Aid training.

Then I had Misael interpret while I prayed out loud, “Oh, Lord, this man is your child. He has obeyed the teaching of Jesus and belongs to Him. This terrible wound was not his fault. Give him life now, that these people may see how You care for Your own.”

I thought to myself, “This is really a test. The Lord’s got to come through. If He doesn’t, this is a dead man.” James’ wife had gone back to wailing. I bluntly said, “Umuna! (Shut up.)” and off we went into the night back to the Carryall to find Dixon.

As Dixon’s village was quite a distance on down the road, we filed back to the car leaving Ticket behind. We didn’t want to renew hostilities. The village was right beside the trail we used for a road. When we drove in among the grass huts, we saw that there was no fire here; but thee glare of my headlights reveled furtive figures in the grass. A we got out of the car, there was suddenly the sound of many running feet, and my hand itched for my gun. I had the urge to dive under the car, but, instead, we stood firm. Silence descended like a dark blanket.

Misael was afraid, too, but I called Dixon’s name and a voice answered from almost overhead. The hut was built up on stilts, and as I shined my light at the doorway, Dixon’s black face appeared. Misael conversed with him briefly; whereupon, he shakily descended the ladder. His wound was much less serious as the axe had not penetrated the bone.

While treating him, I heard the tread of many cautious feet. I asked Misael what was going on. He laughed as he said that the whole population of the village had run off into the darkness at our arrival, fearing that I, a lone, unarmed white man, had come to arrest them. When they understood that I had come to help, they came creeping back. This showed their respect of the white man’s law.

I promised Dixon that if he and James were able, I would take them early the next morning to the Binga hospital, 60 miles away. God answered our prayer, for the next orning they were both able to make the hard journey. Dixon sat in the back with Dixon (both unarmed) and James sat up in front between Misael and me. He had a tendency to get car sick and I thought sitting in front would help. I was wrong!

We were going slowly along the winding gravel road when Misael said, “James is going to be sick.” Then he opened his door and stepped out in spite of the fact that we were still going about 15 mph. I hit the brakes as Misael hit the dust. I got out and got James out and held his head while he got sick. I looked back at Misael. He was getting up and dusting himself off sheepishly. He should have known better. He was wearing a new, blue shirt Bev had made for him as was very proud of it.

“It didn’t tear,” he informed me as he examined his shirt. However, he had some road burns that I had to treat with some ointment.

We arrived safely at the hospital and the doctor checked them over and gave his opinion that Dixon would recover but James probably wouldn’t make it. He was wrong and James had a complete recovery. Ticket had to stay in jail for a while and it gave him some time for thinking. When he came back to the mission, he started studying and listening and soon surrendered to Christ and was immersed. When we came back to America, he gave me his axe to remember him and this story.