He told her of the days when he had worked on the banks
of the Congo with the coolies, a slave in everything but name, when
the sun had burned the brains of men to madness, and the palm wine
had turned them into howling devils. He told her of the natives of
Bekwando, of the days they had spent amongst them in that squalid
hut when their fate hung in the balance day by day, and every shout
that went up from the warriors gathered round the house of the King
was a cry of death. He spoke of their ultimate success, of the
granting of the concession which had laid the foundation of his
fortunes, and then of that terrible journey back through the bush,
followed by the natives who had already repented of their action,
and who dogged their footsteps hour after hour, waiting for them
only to sleep or rest to seize upon them and haul them back to
Bekwando, prisoners for the sacrifice.
"It was only our revolvers which kept them away," he went on. "I
shot eight or nine of them at different times when they came too
close, and to hear them wailing over the bodies was one of the most
hideous things you can imagine. Why, for months and months
afterwards I couldn't sleep. I'd wake up in the night and fancy
that I heard that cursed yelling outside my window - ay, even on
the steamer at night-time if I was on deck before moonlight, I'd
seem to hear it rising up out of the water.
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