THE GOLDEN
POOL

A STORY OF A
FORGOTTEN MINE

BY
R. AUSTIN FREEMAN

CASSELL AND COMPANY, LIMITED
LONDON, PARIS, NEW YORK
AND MELBOURNE. MCMV
All Rights Reserved

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER I. In which I Make the Acquaintance of Captain Bithery

CHAPTER II. In which I Set Out for Africa

CHAPTER III. I Hear Strange Stories and Vague Rumours

CHAPTER IV. I Visit a Graveyard and Meet a Blind Man

CHAPTER V. I Encounter a Curious Relic

CHAPTER VI. The Journal of Captain Barnabas Hogg

CHAPTER VII. I Form an Absurd Resolution

CHAPTER VIII. I Make a New Acquaintance

CHAPTER IX. I Bid Farewell to My Friends

CHAPTER X. I Take to the Road

CHAPTER XI. I Find Myself among Enemies

CHAPTER XII. I Change My Identity

CHAPTER XIII. The Golden Pool

CHAPTER XIV. I am Led into Captivity

CHAPTER XV. The Aboasi Mine

CHAPTER XVI. I Assist in a Robbery and Become a Fugitive

CHAPTER XVII. The Last of Bukári Moshi

CHAPTER XVIII. I Again Become a Fugitive

CHAPTER XIX. I Make my Appearance in a New Character

CHAPTER XX. I Join a Party of Bohemians

CHAPTER XXI. I Meet with Some Old Acquaintances

CHAPTER XXII. A Catastrophe

CHAPTER XXIII. I Make a Curious Discovery

CHAPTER XXIV. I Return to an Old Trade

CHAPTER XXV. I Set Out upon My Voyage

CHAPTER XXVI. I Put Out into the Darkness

CHAPTER XXVII. Ship Ahoy!

CHAPTER XXVIII. In which I bid Farewell to the Reader

Epilogue

THE GOLDEN POOL.
THE STORY OF A FORGOTTEN MINE.

CHAPTER I.
IN WHICH I MAKE THE ACQUAINTANCE OF CAPTAIN BITHERY.

It must have been a matter of surprise to most of us who have arrived at, or passed, middle life, on looking back through a vista of years, to note what an astonishingly important part has been played in our lives by entirely trivial circumstances. It has, indeed, become a common-place that “great events from little causes spring”; but we do not realise, until we actually submit our experiences to analysis, how the whole tenour and meaning of our lives has in many cases been determined by some occurrence so unimportant that, at the time, it appears incredible that it should have any consequences at all.

Yet so it is. Not only great and critical events which occupy our attention at the time and impress themselves afterwards upon our memory, but trifling circumstances that pass almost unnoticed and are straightway forgotten generate each its train of consequences; and when in retrospect we retrace our steps through the busy years, we are apt to find the starting-point of the main action of our life in some little incident that had long since passed out of recollection until thus recalled by association.

These reflections are suggested to me as I review the series of strange and well-nigh incredible adventures that befell me in the early years of my manhood—adventures which it is the purpose of this narrative to chronicle; for their occurrence is traceable to an event so insignificant that its mention would appear an impertinence but for this connection.

This event was, in fact, nothing more than the mislaying of a match-box. Yet, but for this trifling accident, not only would those marvellous experiences never have befallen me, but the entire course of my life—indeed, my very personality—would have been quite different.

It happened thus:

On a windy September evening I was standing on the quay of the inner basin of Ramsgate harbour, filling my pipe with the shavings that I cut from a cake of “hard.” I had just descended the worn steps of Jacob’s Ladder, and still lingered in its shelter until my pipe should be fairly alight, and when I had finished stuffing the bowl with the fresh-rubbed, clammy shavings, I thrust my hand into the pocket of my monkey jacket for the matches. But the box was not there. I hastily searched other pockets, but, as I expected, without success; for I am methodical in small things, and that box had its abode in that particular pocket.

I was somewhat vexed at the loss, although the thing was of no intrinsic value, for it was only a copper case, into which an ordinary match-box slipped; but it had been made for me by a friendly shipwright from the sheathing of an old corvette (a portrait of which was etched on the copper), and I set some store by it.

As I walked on, sucking the unlit pipe, I tried to recall the last occasion on which I had used it; and suddenly I remembered having passed it to a collier skipper some evenings ago, in the parlour of the “Hovelling Boat” Inn; so thither I immediately turned my steps.

It must not be supposed that I was, in those days, a frequenter of taverns, for this was far from being the case. But to a young man, deeply in love with the sea, the “Hovelling Boat” had special attractions. It was situated in a little narrow street full of crinkled gables and odd bay windows, and blocked at its end by a medley of masts and spars; a street in which anchors and cables sprawled on the pavements, side-lights glared from ship-chandlers’ windows, and suits of oilskins dangled from projecting poles, as if some fisher of men were lurking inside and had just had a “bite.”

The inn itself had a coloured lamp, surmounted by a gilded lugger in full sail, and its cosy parlour abounded in all sorts of sea-monsters—piratical-looking fishermen from Gravelines in knitted caps and stockings and mosaic breeches, whose principal patches hinted at sedentary habits; jolly Dutchmen from square-bowed schuyts; pale Scandinavians with colourless hair and faded blue eyes; smacksmen, colliers, and coasters from the “west country”: all foregathered here to smoke and drink and gossip in the lurid dialect of the salt sea.

I had pushed open the door and was making for the parlour, when the landlady spied me and held up her hand.

“I think I’ve got something of yours, Muster Englefield,” she said, reaching up to a shelf. “Doesn’t this match-box belong to you? I found it in the parlour last Tuesday.”

“Thank you,” I said, seizing the treasure and dropping it into my pocket. “I had come to ask about it. It’s an old friend, and I should have been sorry to lose it.”

I was turning to go out again when she stopped me once more.

“There’s a bit of an unpleasantness going on in there,” she said, nodding towards the parlour. “I should be glad if you could find time to sit down there for a few minutes, sir. Perhaps the presence of a stranger and a gentleman might keep them in order.”

“Very well,” I said. “Send me in a glass of grog and I’ll smoke my pipe in the parlour, and hear what they have to say.”

As I entered and looked round through the blue haze of tobacco smoke, it was not difficult to see who were the parties to the “unpleasantness,” for the inmates of the room, about a dozen in number, lounged on the settles, regarding with placid expectancy two men who occupied separate tables near the fire-place.

They were both mariners of the better class, apparently ship-masters; and one of them—a tall, burly Norwegian with the palest of blue eyes and a mass of straw-coloured hair and beard—stood resting his knuckles on the table while he glared ferociously at his antagonist—a thick-set, powerful man, apparently English, whose swarthy face was made remarkable by a deep scar on the jaw, the contraction of which had drawn his mouth and nose somewhat to one side.

“I ask you again,” exclaimed the Norwegian, huskily, “do you say I am a liar?”

The Englishman made no reply, but a curious, sour, one-sided smile spread over his face, giving it a rather sinister appearance.

“Whoy don’t ye answer the man, ’nstead o’ settin’ there a-agravatin’ of ’im?” protested a jovial smacksman (who appeared to be attired for a dress rehearsal of “Puss in Boots”).

“I have answered him,” replied the other gruffly. “I have told him that I have got a smashed channel and he has a dent on his stem; he’s lost half a jibboom and I’ve found one—on my deck.”

“What’s the row about?” I asked a Cockney bargeman who sat near the door, fondling a pewter pot.

“It’s all along of a collision. ’E begun the rumpus,” replied the bargeman jerking his head vaguely at the fireplace.

“Which one?”

“ ’Im,” responded the bargee, nodding again. “That bloke with the kink in ’is dial.”

This delicate allusion to the Englishman’s facial peculiarity appeared to reach the ears of its subject, for he turned sharply and inquired—

“What’s that you’re saying?”

“I was telling this gentleman what the trouble was about,” replied the bargee, meekly, evidently wishing he had clothed his ideas in less allegorical language.

“And what the devil has it got to do with either you or him?” demanded the Englishman.

“Why there y’are. ’Tain’t got nothin’; but I’m arst a civil question and I gives a civil answer,” and the bargee veiled his countenance with the pewter pot.

“As to me,” said I, as persuasively as I could, “I hope you won’t take offence at my curiosity, which is really not unnatural, you know.”

“I’m not taking any offence as long as you don’t interfere with what doesn’t concern you. If you want to know what the row was about, I’ll tell you——”

“Not here,” I urged.

“And why not here?” demanded the other, blazing up into sudden wrath. “D’ye suppose I’m afraid to speak before any putty-faced Dutchman that ever trod the rotten deck of a Baltic sea-knacker? I’ll speak where I please and say what I like; and what I mean to say is that these damned Scandinavians are the pest of the high seas. Why, devil take it! they navigate their ricketty derelicts as if they’d served their time in Noah’s Ark. Perhaps one of ’em did, too,” he added, with a sour grin all on one side of his face, “and then I’d lay anything that it was his watch on deck when she got ashore on Mount Ararat.”

A chorus of guffaws greeted this sally and threatened to bring the quarrel to a crisis, for the Norwegian, who had reseated himself, now rose, crimson in the face and, thrusting his hand under the skirt of his coat, stepped forward, shouting hoarsely:

“You are a dommed liar—a cursed, ugly-faced wrecker, and I am going to show you——”

“Here, Oi say, none o’ that!” interposed the jolly smacksman at this juncture, for a broad-bladed “green-river” had made its appearance from under the foreign sailor’s coat. “Do what ye loike with yer fists, but no cold iron without you want to find yer head jammed in the bight of a rope.”

“Let me go!” roared the Norwegian, struggling in the grasp of the smacksman and a couple of sturdy colliers, “let me get at him! I am going to show him something.”

“Well, let’s see what he’s going to show me,” said the Englishman, pushing forward with a very ugly expression on his unsymmetrical face.

“Don’t be a fool, mate,” said the smacksman interposing his massive person between the belligerents, adding in a lower tone, “They’ve sent for the police, I think.”

Thinking this a favourable opportunity to intervene, I laid my hand on the Englishman’s arm.

“Come,” I said coaxingly, “this won’t do, you know. For a man in your position—a stranger in the town, too—to be mixed up in a tavern brawl with people like this,” and I nodded vaguely at the company in general. I had no idea what the man’s position was, but it seemed a politic thing to say, and so it turned out, for he faced me with a mollified growl that encouraged me to proceed. “I’m sure it wouldn’t suit you to be involved in any scandal here. Why not come and have a drink with me somewhere else? Come along. I want to hear all about this.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” he replied in a quieter tone, and was turning towards the door when it suddenly opened and a tall elderly man in a peaked cap and black uniform entered.

“Here’s Muster Jenkins,” announced the smacksman as the newcomer, raising his hand, inquired in rounded oratorical tones:

“What’s hall this disgraceful noise and riot about?”

“Out you come!” I exclaimed, and without more ado I seized my new acquaintance by the arm and fairly dragged him out at the door, and hauling him up the passage, shot him out on to the pavement.

“Now, leg it before they come out,” I commanded, and my friend having by this time awakened to his position, we made off together for the harbour like a pair of quite exceptionally agile lamplighters, and did not slacken our pace until we were half-way along that stretch of quay known as the Military Road. In this secluded spot, with the dim shapes of the colliers’ masts looming above us on one side, and the tall, black sail lofts on the other, we halted to listen for the footsteps of pursuers, but all being silent we resumed our progress at a more leisurely pace.

“Have a smoke?” asked my companion as he hoisted out of an enormous side-pocket a handful of cigars.

“Thanks,” I replied, and then when we had lighted our respective weeds with some stinking Swedish matches from the same receptacle, I ventured to ask:

“By the way, what was all that row about?”

My companion took his cigar from his mouth and laughed a little shyly.

“The fact is,” he said, “I opened the ball by making a confounded fool of myself. You must know, I have a pet aversion—call it prejudice if you like—that pet aversion is Dutchmen, or rather, I should say, Scandinavians.”

“Why, I thought they were considered excellent seamen,” I said.

“So they may be,” he replied. “Anyhow, I don’t like ’em, and I am more than usually down on ’em just now, for one of the beggars got aboard of me last Tuesday night and played the deuce with my vessel.”

“Indeed!” said I, pricking up my ears.

“Ah! It was about seven bells in the middle watch—half-past three in the morning, you know—and as dark as a vault. We were slipping along with a nice little bit of easterly breeze, just abreast of the East Goodwin light, making for the Downs. It was the mate’s watch, and, my mate being a careful man, he had a look-out on each bow; the side-lights were burning brightly, everything was ship-shape and Bristol fashion, and nobody dreaming of any danger, when suddenly the port look-out gave a shout, and before anyone could stir, a vessel heaves up out of the darkness, with never a blessed light about her, mind you! and bumps right into us amidships. Her jibboom snapped off in our main shrouds and brought our main t’gallant clattering down about our ears, and then she came grinding along our side clawing about half our bulwarks away with the fluke of her anchor, and tearing our shrouds all to rags.”

“And what had her skipper to say for himself?” I asked.

“Say?” shouted my companion. “Why, bless your heart! before we could get about to speak to him he was off into the darkness without a sign; he might have been a derelict—but he wasn’t, for we saw a man at the wheel.”

“How did you know he was a Scandinavian?” I inquired with my friend’s admitted prejudice in my mind.

“Why you see,” he replied, “we always keep a lighted lantern on deck to show to any vessel that may be overhauling us; so when she ran us down, the mate caught up the lantern and threw a glimmer of light on her. We could have spotted her by her deck load of timber and her jolly old windmill, but the mate managed to get a squint at her stern as she went by and, although he couldn’t make out the name, he could see that she belonged to Brevig. Now we hadn’t been in Ramsgate twelve hours when in comes a crazy old barque from Brevig with half her jibboom gone and a dent on her stem just the height of our channels. That Dutchman in the pub is her skipper, and he swears his jibboom was carried away a week ago by a steamer, but he won’t let us try the broken piece on his stump. So now you understand why I pitched into him.”

“Quite. But you’ll have a Board of Trade inquiry, won’t you?”

“Of course we shall; in fact, it’s on now, and that’s why I was such an infernal donkey to quarrel with him; and I am very much obliged to you, sir, for getting me out of that pub before anything unpleasant happened.”

He laid a huge hand on my shoulder as he spoke and, in the dim light, his twisted face took on a more pleasant expression than I had thought possible.

“Not a bit of it,” I replied; “but that reminds me that we were going to clink a glass together. Where shall we go? The coast will be quite clear by now.”

“I’ll tell you what,” said he. “You come aboard with me, and we’ll have a glass and a yarn in the cabin, and let the pubs go to blazes. How will that suit you?”

“I shall be delighted,” said I, with truth; for I did not care to be seen in the ordinary taverns of the town, whereas a ship’s cabin had an alluring smack of romance to a sea-smitten landsman like myself.

As we talked we had been strolling round the basin, and now, having passed over the second bridge on the Cross-wall, made for the gates by the Custom House.

“My craft’s berthed in this corner opposite the ‘Queen’s Head,’ ” said my new friend. “I’m having a new t’gallant mast fitted, and this berth is handy for the riggers.”

As he spoke we turned out of the gates into Harbour Street, and almost at once I perceived, shooting up into the black void, a tall and shapely mast that even in that light I could not fail to recognise.

“Surely,” said I, “this is the brig that came in from the Downs some four or five days ago?”

“That’s so,” replied my companion; “did you see her come in?”

“Yes, and, by Jove! what a beauty she looked in spite of her damaged mainmast.”

“You’re right,” my friend responded, “she’s a remarkably pretty model, and the owners don’t mind spending a few pounds on keeping her up; and then, of course, a vessel that goes foreign has to be fitted out a little differently to a craft like that,” and he nodded superciliously at a grimy, battered collier that lay close by, “that’s always mucking about in harbours and rivers round the coast. But here we are—mind your shins on this ladder. Anyone on board, Moloney?”

“No, sorr,” replied a tall sailor who was pacing the deck in company with a portly black cat. “Misther Jobling and Misther Darvill have gone to the theayterr, and the new stcheward hasn’t come aboard yet.”

“All right, Michael,” said the Captain, for such I judged him to be; “when the steward comes aboard send him to me.”

“Ay, ay, sorr,” replied Moloney, smartly touching his cap; and having adroitly hoisted the cat some half-dozen paces along the deck with his foot, he resumed his walk, apostrophising his feline companion in a grumbling bass as he went.

“Will ye kape out o’ the fairway, ye great, fat, lazy, lollopin’ black divil!” But I noticed that the pair seemed on excellent terms despite the Irishman’s rather abrupt manner.

The cabin, as we entered from the dark companionway, looked singularly cosy and homelike. A large oil lamp which swung from one of the deck beams shed a cheerful light over the little interior and showed it to be in keeping with the brig’s smart design and rig. The panelling was of mahogany and bird’s-eye maple, the ceiling was painted a dead white; broad, cushioned lockers surrounded the table—now gay with a crimson cloth—and the aperture of the skylight was covered in by handsome red silk curtains.

“This is my little home,” said my host, looking round, somewhat complacently I thought, upon the trim little apartment, “and I bid you welcome in it, Mr. ——”

“Englefield,” said I. “Richard Englefield.”

“My name is Bithery,” my companion volunteered in return. “Christian name Nicholas, trade or profession master mariner, of Bristol City, at present commander of the brig Lady Jane, from Hamburg to the West Coast of Africa.” As he, half jokingly, furnished these details, the Captain’s face again lighted up with the singularly genial smile that I had observed before, in which its trifling deformity was forgotten.

“Sit ye down there on that locker,” said he, and proceeded to make the most formidable preparations for a carouse, reaching out of a cupboard in the bulkhead a veritable battalion of bottles—high-shouldered Dutch bottles, tall brown stone German jars, squat bloated bottles of unknown nationality, and lastly a bottle of old French brandy. Then he discharged a cargo of cigars from his coat pocket, and taking a couple of tumblers and a water bottle from the swing tray that hung above the table, he sat down with a sigh of content.

“There now,” he said, “out of that lot we ought to be able to get a drink. There’s German gin, Squareface, and the Lord knows what else, but if you take my advice you’ll stick to that cognac—it’s the right stuff.”

I charged my tumbler with this highly-recommended beverage and, the Captain having followed my example, we sat and smoked in silence for some time.

“So you like my little ship?” said the skipper presently.

“I fell in love with her the first time I saw her,” I replied. “I’ve never seen a brig at all like her before.”

“I don’t suppose you have,” rejoined the Captain. “Probably there isn’t another like her afloat, for they don’t build clippers of this size nowadays. You see, our owner is a bit of a sportsman and this brig is his fancy. By the way, you’re in the shipping line yourself, aren’t you?”

“Not I,” I answered, smiling a little bitterly, “I wish I were. No, I’m a clerk in Jobson’s Bank.”

“My eye!” exclaimed the skipper. “I couldn’t stand that. Sitting in a cellar all day counting other people’s money. What made you take that job on?”

“Well, it was this way. When I was about twelve, my father was offered a post in the bank, so he came down here from London and brought me with him. Then, about eight years ago, he was taken off suddenly by influenza and, as my mother had died when I was quite a child, I was left high and dry to shift for myself; so I applied at the bank for some kind of work and was taken on as junior clerk—and there I’ve been ever since, and pretty sick of it I get sometimes, I can tell you.”

“I expect you do,” said the Captain, regarding me meditatively through a haze of tobacco smoke. “It must be a dog’s life. Why don’t you chuck it?”

“What could I do?” I asked.

“Well, what can you do?” the Captain inquired by way of a Scotch answer.

“I can write a decent hand,” said I. “I can keep books of a kind, can speak French and German fairly—I pick up languages rather easily—I can sail a boat and I can build one, too, if necessary.”

“Can ye, though?” said the Captain, pricking up his ears, as I thought.

“Yes. I built myself a little canoe yawl, and I sail her about here a good deal. On Sundays in summer I often take her right round the Goodwins—start in the early morning and come home in the dusk. And I made every bit of her myself in off times: hull, spars, sails, blocks—everything but just the iron fittings.”

“Did ye now?” said the Captain approvingly. “Sails and all? You’re a pretty handy man then.”

“Yes, I’m pretty handy at wood and metal work and such like, but, of course, that doesn’t help one much towards getting a living.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t. It’s useful though. What should you like to do if you had your choice?”

“Oh,” said I, “if I could see a chance I would go abroad and see foreign lands and knock about the world for a time. I’ve been on the look-out for a billet of the kind for years, but nothing ever seems to turn up.”

The Captain remained silent for some time after this, surrounding himself with a dense cloud of smoke and regarding me as attentively as if I had been some rare and curious work of art.

At length he removed his pipe from his mouth and, still regarding me fixedly, said:

“How should you like to come with me this trip?”

The question staggered me for a moment, but recovering myself I asked:

“Do you mean to Africa?”

“Yes,” said the Captain.

“There is nothing,” I replied eagerly, “that I should like better, but I don’t see what use I should be on board. I’m no seaman, and you don’t want clerks on board ship.”

“Well, the fact is we do in this trade,” said Captain Bithery. “You see, this isn’t just a vessel with a cargo consigned to a merchant at a given port. This is a floating shop. The cargo is our own, and we sell it where we can, and how we can, mostly to small native traders, and we trade and swap and chaffer for the produce with which we fill up for the homeward trip. That’s where you would come in. Most of the actual trading was managed last trip by our steward, who was practically the purser; but he got typhoid, so we had to leave him at Hamburg, and although we are taking on a new steward here, he will only be a sort of cook and cabin steward—we ship a black cook on the Coast—and he doesn’t know anything about the trade. Now, I’ve taken a bit of a fancy to you, and I think you and I could get on together pretty comfortably, so if you like to ship with me to help me keep the books and work the trade, I’ve got a spare berth that you can have, and I’ll pay you eight pounds a month and a commission on any profits you make; and you shall be at liberty to leave the brig at any time if anything should turn up that would suit you better.”

This was unquestionably a very handsome proposal, and so much in excess of any expectations I had formed that, without pausing to give the matter any further consideration, I accepted the Captain’s offer with many expressions of gratitude and delight.

“Very well, then,” said the skipper, pushing the bottle across to my side of the table, “that’s settled. You come with us this jaunt and, as you must have some title on the articles, we’ll call you the purser, although that’s only what you’d call an honorary title, you understand. So here’s a health to the new purser,” and as I mixed a fresh glass with a trembling hand, Captain Bithery emptied his tumbler at a draught and slapped it down on the table with a flourish.

Thus was the curtain rung down on the first act of my life’s little drama. A few words spoken, like a magic incantation, had changed my identity, and when I scrambled up the ladder on to the quay as the harbour clock was striking twelve, I barked the shins, not of Mr. Englefield of Jobson’s Bank, but of the purser of the Lady Jane.

CHAPTER II.
IN WHICH I SET OUT FOR AFRICA.

It was a soft sunny morning when, some ten days later, I stood on the white deck of the Lady Jane, taking, very earnestly, and indeed with unexpected emotion, my last look at the town and harbour of Ramsgate.

The brig lay at the mouth of the eastern entrance to the basin, and already, with the gentle northerly breeze filling her broad white topsails, she was beginning to tug impatiently at the great hawser by which she was tethered to a stone post on the quay. On board all was bustle and apparent confusion. Chain sheets rattled, blocks squealed, coils of rope thumped on the deck, and the branch pilot rushed about the vessel, as Moloney said, “like a dog at a fair”; while on the quay, a stout red-jowled harbour official stood and bellowed unceasingly—apparently from sheer excess of animal spirits.

“Are ye all clear there?” shouted the pilot, darting on to the forecastle to take a last look at the head-sails. “Are ye all clear aft—here, you! leave that trys’l be—we don’t want him yet. Are ye all clear?”

“All clear,” growled the mate.

“Cast off the sternfast, Mr. Giles,” roared the pilot, and the official, having deliberately hitched the great bowline off the post, announced that it was “All gone” in a voice like the report of a forty-eight pounder.

As the hawser fell with a splash into the water, the quay with the little crowd of onlookers began slowly to move away—as it seemed to me; and as the brig gathered way the whole scene around seemed to glide past like the shifting picture from a magic lantern. All the familiar objects—the clock tower, the row of freshly-painted buoys on the quay, the sun-lighted obelisk and the tall church steeple, the tide ball up on the cliff and the crowded masts in the basin, began to fade away and grow small in the increasing distance; while a musical tinkle arose from under the vessel’s bows, and the water astern began to be dimpled with eddies and tiny whirlpools. Then for a moment the lighthouse loomed up high above our deck, and the grey pier heads, lined with a throng of gaily-dressed girls, slipped quietly by and, leaving the dead water of the harbour, we met the soft swell of the bay, which the Lady Jane saluted with a stately curtsey.

I stood by the taffrail gazing, with my heart in my mouth, at the receding land, the clustering town above the white cliff—now grown so strangely dear—and the dwindling harbour, and rapidly reviewing the events that had occurred since my momentous meeting with Captain Bithery.

What a time it had been! How I had rushed off on the following morning to emancipate myself from the thraldom of Jobson’s! With what glee I had run up to London, on the Captain’s advice, to buy an outfit for the voyage, and how I had swaggered down the Minories with the rolling gait of a seasoned buccaneer, followed by a porter staggering under the burden of a colossal seaman’s chest. How the said chest had been triumphantly flung open in the Lady Jane’s cabin and made to disgorge piles of storm suits, sail needles, palms, jumpers, dungarees, marlin-spikes, boat compasses, sheath knives, pistols, until the Captain fell back on the locker and fairly shouted with laughter. All these things surged through my mind until the voice of the branch pilot wishing the Captain a pleasant voyage as he stepped down into his boat, recalled me to the fact that our voyage was really begun and that the wide ocean lay before us.

On the incidents of the voyage it is not my intention to dwell. It was on the whole an eminently prosperous voyage, and for that very reason singularly devoid of incident, although to me, fresh from the grinding routine of an office, every minute of the day brought with it something new, surprising and delightful. For hours at a time would I pace the heaving deck listening to the song of the breeze as it hummed through the rigging or murmured in the hollows of the sails; gazing with unwearied eyes at the ever new prospect of sunny sky and incredibly blue sea that stretched away on all sides like a moving mass of liquid sapphire. The dainty pink “Portuguese men of war” that drifted past in endless processions, and the fantastic forms of the flying fish, were wonders that never staled; the porpoises that gambolled around our bows seemed like the creatures from some Eastern fable, while at night, the glitter of the moonbeams on the water and the sparkle of the Noctiluca in the vessel’s shadow furnished visions of beauty beyond my wildest dreams.

Yet, novel and delightful as it was to me, the voyage was, as I have said, quite uneventful. The north-easterly breeze with which we started carried us to the chops of the Channel, and then veering round to the south-west gave us a fortnight of what the Captain grumblingly described as “wind-jamming.” At length, as we approached the thirtieth parallel, we felt the first breath of the north-east trade wind, and thereafter a fresh draught poured constantly over our quarter until we were well south of the latitude of Cape Verde. In all this time the only land we sighted was the peak of Teneriffe, which one day lay on the extreme verge of the horizon and which I at first took to be a bank of cloud.

One morning when we were between five and six weeks out, on coming out of my berth I found the Captain seated at the table thoughtfully contemplating a perspiring slab of corned pork which lay before him, while he slowly stirred his coffee.

“You lazy dog,” he said, smiling pleasantly nevertheless as I entered, and pushing the dish of sliced pork over to the place where my plate was set. “You idle ruffian, do you know that it’s nearly two bells and that we made the land at daybreak?”

“Made the land!” I exclaimed excitedly. “Why, I didn’t know you expected to see land for another week.”

“We might have seen it any time this last ten days, for we’ve been sailing parallel to the coast ever since we rounded Cape Palmas, and never much more than twenty miles off.”

“Whereabouts are we now?” I asked.

“Just passing Cape St. Paul. Oh, you needn’t excite yourself,” for I was rising to go on deck, “there’s nothing to see, only a thin grey line with a few cocoa nuts like pins stuck into the horizon. It’s a scurvy-looking coast, this.”

“When do you expect to make your port?” I inquired eagerly.

“Port!” he exclaimed contemptuously, “there are no ports here, my lad; just open roadsteads with a swell that’s enough to roll the sticks out of a vessel, and a surf pounding the beach that would kick the stuffing out of an Institution lifeboat.”

“That’s jolly,” I remarked.

“Ah, you’ll say so when you have to go ashore through it. But to return to the ‘port’ question; we shall be off Quittáh in about an hour—sit down, man, for God’s sake! and drink your coffee like a Christian—and as a good bit of the cargo is going ashore there, we shall have our anchor down maybe for a week or two.”

I took a gulp at the hot coffee and began to stow away the corned pork and biscuit with a speed that did not escape the Captain’s notice, for he remarked with a grin:

“Don’t gobble your grub like that, Englefield. Africa’ll keep, never fear. Besides, lad, I want to have a bit of serious talk with you.”

I slowed down my mastication and indicated that I was all attention.

“Well, now,” said the Captain, “you remember what I told you about this trip—that our business was more to trade than to carry freight. We’ve got some tons of stuff for a merchant here in Quittáh—a Portuguese named Pereira—and a biggish consignment for a German down at Bagidá; but more than half the cargo is our own, and we’ve got to turn our goods into produce by trading on our own hook. Well, you see, most of the trading has got to be done ashore, for the niggers won’t bring their produce on board through the surf, nor will they come on board to buy our stuff when there are stores ashore where they can buy, so the governor has made arrangements with Pereira to hire a store at Quittáh by the lagoon side close to the market place, and I have got to stock that store—or factory, as they call it out here—with trade goods and put somebody in charge of it to sell the goods and buy the produce.

“Now, my lad, you’re very useful to me on board ship; you can take your trick at the wheel with any of them, and you can go aloft and hand a sail if need be, but, thanks to the Boss we’re not short-handed aboard, whereas we are a trifle short for the shore work. So I’ve been wondering whether you’d care to take a spell ashore and look after the factory for a while. It would be a bit of a change for you, and you’d make something in the way of commission, besides seeing the country, which you seem anxious to do.”

“Of course, I know nothing about the trade,” I objected.

“Of course you don’t; but I can very soon put you up to all that you need know. You’ll have the store well stocked with Manchester goods, gin, guns, powder, knives, beads, and trash of that kind, and you’ll have a chest of cash, say a hundred pounds—all in silver and mostly in threepenny bits (for the niggers won’t touch copper money, and don’t understand anything but a dollar or a threepenny piece) to carry on with. When the bush niggers come in with their produce, you’ll buy it at a fixed rate and take all of it that you can get—palm oil, kernels, copra, rubber (especially rubber), ground nuts and any oddments, such as scrivelloes, ebony or copal, that may turn up. Then, when you have bought them out, you’ll let ’em browse about the store and look at your goods, and you’ll have to keep your weather eye lifting so that they don’t hook the toys and mizzle without paying. If you work ’em properly they’ll spend all you’ve paid ’em for the produce, and go off as pleased as Punch with their cargo of gimcracks. I know what you’re thinking,” he continued, seeing that I hung back. “You don’t consider it quite the ticket for a gentleman to sell gin to a parcel of naked niggers.”

I laughed and perhaps reddened a little, for he had pretty accurately gauged my thoughts.

“I expect it’s pretty awful stuff,” I said evasively.

“There you are wrong,” he replied. “Cheap it is—I shouldn’t like to tell you what we gave for it at Hamburg—but it is as good gin as you could wish to drink, supposing you wished to drink any at all. The mystery is how they do it at the price. And as to serving in the factory, I am sure you needn’t mind that; every produce buyer has to do it, and there are some excellent fellows in the trade. But turn it over and let me know what you think about it, and let us go on deck and have a look round.”

The scene on deck betokened the occurrence of something unusual, for the whole ship’s company was assembled, the men gathered in a little knot on the forecastle and the two mates pacing the poop in earnest conversation, all eyes being directed over the port bow where a stretch of low land was visible at a distance of some three miles.

Above the lee bulwark the head of Moloney was visible as he stood in the main chains heaving the hand-lead, and his faithful companion, the cat, sat on the rail above him and gravely superintended the operation.

“Whisht!” whistled Moloney as he whirled the lead round. “Will ye take that black chuckle-head of yourn out of the road before ye get it knocked off;” then as the lead plumped into the water and he gathered up the slack of the line, he sang out in his mellow Irish baritone:

“By the deep—eight.”

Six weeks of unvaried sea and sky makes the sight of any land welcome, and so we all gazed shoreward with a feeling of pleasure, although we looked upon nothing more than the ill-omened coast of the Bight of Benin.

And an agreeable enough picture it made, with the deep blue sky, the bright yellow streak of beach lace-edged with a white fringe of surf, and the low-lying land covered with dense soft-looking foliage of dark bluish green.

“That’s Jellah-Coffee that we’re passing now,” said the Captain, pointing to what looked like a large park or wood, “all cocoa nuts, thousands of palms—we ought to get some copra from there.”

“How far is Quittáh from here?” I asked.

“There it is,” he replied, pointing to another grove of vegetation a mile or so further east; “we shall open the fort in a few minutes.”

We continued to approach the land obliquely, guided by Moloney’s probings of the deep and taking in sail by degrees, until the veil of foliage rolling aside disclosed a white building of some size, above which I made out with my glasses the Union Jack fluttering from a tall flagstaff. At this moment Moloney sang out, with some emphasis, as I thought, “Quarter less—six,” on which the brig’s head was put up into the wind and the anchor chain rattled out through the hawse-pipe for the first time since we sailed out of Ramsgate harbour.

That afternoon, as the Captain had to go ashore to transact some business with the District Commissioner, relating to the duties on our part of the cargo, he proposed that I should accompany him that I might see some of the sights of Quittáh and make the acquaintance of Pereira. To this I readily agreed, and soon after lunch the skipper and I took our seats in a couple of Madeira chairs that were lashed to the thwarts of a surf-boat that Pereira had sent out for us in charge of his coloured agent, a dark mulatto named Isaac Vanderpuye. By Vanderpuye we were assured that the surf was as quiet as a lamb to-day, which gave me the impression that the African lamb must be a beast of an exceedingly boisterous temperament, for after being most infernally buffeted and shaken up by the heavy swell we were finally shot out on the beach drenched to the skin with salt water.

The glare on the beach was blinding and the heat terrific, for the dry sand was so baked by the sun that the air rose from it all in a tremble, but after a few minutes’ laborious scrambling over the loose shifting surface, we suddenly entered an avenue which, by the abrupt contrast, seemed as dark and cool as a cloister. It was formed by two rows of wild fig trees which, arching overhead, enclosed a species of tunnel, the deep green roof of which was lighted by innumerable shafts of golden sunlight, and from the interlacing branches there hung down great stalactite-like masses of brown aërial roots. As we sauntered up the avenue, gazing around with a seaman’s delight at its umbrageous beauty, we passed numerous groups of native soldiers, barefooted ragamuffins dressed in threadbare blue serge, squatting on the ground, gravely engaged in a kind of primitive chess which they played with large beans on squares scratched upon smooth patches of earth with a pointed stick.

The end of the avenue brought us out opposite the front of the crazy, weather-beaten fort, from one bastion of which the tall flagstaff bent and shook in the wind, and at the wide gateway, where a barefooted sentry stood on guard, I left the Captain to pursue his business while I strolled with Vanderpuye into the town.

As I walked through the streets (if I can apply so dignified a name to the irregular alleys by which the town was intersected) I stared about at the strange and novel sights that presented themselves on all sides with the wonder and curiosity of the raw country bumpkin that I was; for it is to be remembered that I stepped, as it were, straight from the quiet little English seaport into this strange and remote African town with a transition as abrupt as if I had been transported thither in an instant by some miracle-working jinn. So I walked on like one in a dream by the side of my conductor—who, I may mention, was tastefully attired in a suit of crimson-flowered chintz and wore a white helmet and carpet slippers—under strange broad-leaved trees and rattling cocoa nut palms, past mud-built native hovels and whitewashed stores, pausing now and again to watch the groups of black people under the shady trees and continually questioning the grinning Vanderpuye.

We passed several Europeans—pale-faced, depressed-looking men with square-cut beards, evidently Germans—all dressed in white drill, with pipe-clayed helmets and red cummerbunds, who gazed at me with languid curiosity; but of none of them did my guide take any notice until, turning a corner into a broader thoroughfare, we suddenly encountered a white man of quite different appearance, at whom I stared with renewed astonishment.

He was a tall, elderly man with a fine white beard cut to a point, and a face that was singularly grave and dignified in cast. But his dress, which in another place might have seemed eminently appropriate, was the occasion of my surprise, for it consisted of a suit of black broad-cloth with a wide-skirted frock coat, a chimney-pot hat of patriarchal mould, and polished black boots, and he carried a neatly-rolled black silk umbrella. Altogether his appearance was even more suggestive of the agency of some sportive jinn than my own, for he might have been picked up just as he stood in Oxford Street and dropped an instant later in the middle of Quittáh.

“This is Mr. Pereira,” said Vanderpuye, as the stranger removed his hat with a flourish and bowed solemnly to me.

“You’re from the Lady Jane, I perceive,” said he glancing at the house-badge on my white cap and speaking in almost perfect English.

I replied that I was, and explained that the Captain proposed to join us as soon as he had finished his business with the Commissioner.

“Then,” said Mr. Pereira, “we will walk to my house and wait for him.”

So we resumed our walk through the hot, sandy street amidst crowds of naked, black urchins and groups of small shaggy short-haired sheep, which bleated stridently and quarrelled for scraps of offal—dry plantain skins, shreds of sugar-cane, and even fragments of putrid fish—which they disinterred from the grimy, heated sand.

In the course of about five minutes we arrived at Pereira’s house, which abutted upon a narrow street or lane, along one side of which a row of broad-leaved wild fig trees cast a deep and grateful shade.

The house was a two-storeyed building of whitewashed brick, the lower or ground floor forming the trading store, over which were the living rooms surrounded by a wooden verandah.

At the entrance to the stairway Vanderpuye took his leave, and Pereira and I ascended to the “hall” or principal living-room, where my host handed me, with a bow, into a luxurious easy-chair; and having blown a shrill blast upon a whistle which he drew from his pocket, begged me to excuse him for a few minutes while he despatched some business that demanded his attention in the store.

Left to myself, I gazed about at my new surroundings with uncommon satisfaction, for, accustomed as I had been to the narrow proportions of the brig’s tiny cuddy, the lofty, spacious apartment in which I now sat appeared quite magnificent, and as my eye took in the various details—the floor covered with handsome matting, the wide, hospitable chairs, the shining table with its bowl of flowers, the little painted sideboard groaning under huge dishes of bananas, sour-sops and mangoes, the perspiring water-cooler that hung in the open window, and, above all, the charming vista of blue-green foliage, glossy-leafed plantains and feathery cocoa-nut palms—I felt that the prospect of a few months ashore was not so alarming after all.

My meditations were shortly interrupted by the entry of a barefooted native servant who carried a pot of steaming coffee. The man grinned amiably as he entered, and remarked “Mawnin’, sah!” having made which concise but irrelevant remark—it being about five o’clock in the afternoon—he laid out the coffee service on the table, fished a tin of crackers out of the sideboard, and with another grin, flopped out of the room. He had barely disappeared when the cheerful notes of Captain Bithery’s voice were heard on the stairs, and in another moment that gentleman entered with Pereira.

“So you’ve found your way here, have you?” he remarked, slapping me on the shoulder. “Quite at home you look too in that chair. By Jingo! but that coffee smells good! We don’t catch any sniffs like this out of the Lady Jane’s caboose, hey?”

“No, I expect you do not,” replied Pereira, as he filled our cups. “I have tasted ship’s coffee, and it was—well, it was not like this.” He smiled apologetically and handed the condensed milk to the skipper.

“I’ll wager it wasn’t,” agreed the Captain, smacking his lips and sipping the hot fluid daintily from a spoon; “real good stuff this is. Not native?”

“Grown at Akropong,” answered Pereira.

“Basel Mission?” inquired Bithery.

“No. A friend of mine has a plantation there, and I get the coffee from him. I’ve a couple of hundred bags in the store down below now if you’d like to have some.”

A knowing grin spread itself over the starboard side of Captain Bithery’s face.

“There’s a cunning old fox for you,” he said, turning to me. “Before I’ve been in his house five minutes he begins shoving his wares under my nose and trying to trade. Oh! you’re a downy old bird, Pereira.”

The old man smiled deprecatingly and shrugged his shoulders, remarking that good coffee was selling very well at home just now, and eventually, after some haggling, the whole two hundred bags were accepted as the first instalment of the Lady Jane’s homeward cargo. The conversation now drifted into strictly commercial channels, being chiefly occupied with the disposal of the Lady Jane’s cargo, and I noticed that the Captain glanced at me from time to time as he talked, and conjectured that he was wondering how I was impressed by what I had seen of Africa. That this conjecture of mine was correct, was made evident when Pereira presently left us, to pay a visit to the store, for the Captain turned to me and asked a little anxiously:

“Well, Englefield, what do you think of Quittáh?”

“It doesn’t seem a bad sort of place at all,” I replied.

“I suppose,” the Captain continued after a pause, “you haven’t thought any more of what I spoke about this morning?”

“Yes, I have,” I answered, “and I have decided that I don’t mind staying ashore for a month or two and working the store.”

“Have ye now?” exclaimed Bithery, jumping up and seizing my hand. “I am delighted to hear you say so, for if you will take charge of the stuff ashore, I shall be relieved of a great responsibility. You see, old man, there’s nobody else on board that I could trust with the goods and the money, and of course I know nothing about any of these shore chaps; so I take this as really kind of you. I’ll tell Pereira that you’re going to stay with him, shall I?”

“By all means,” I replied, with another complacent glance round the airy, comfortable room; “that is, if he is willing to put me up.”

“Oh, he’ll be willing enough,” rejoined the Captain, and Pereira returning at this moment, the arrangement was completed out of hand, much to the old gentleman’s apparent satisfaction.

That night I slept but little, for a variety of causes kept me restless and wakeful. In the first place the large square bed, which was enclosed in a mosquito curtain that flapped and rustled in the wind, had an irritating way of keeping perfectly level and stationary—a state of things that now seemed quite abnormal and surprising. Then the night air was filled with new and unfamiliar sounds. Instead of the rhythmical creaking of a wooden ship, the song of the breeze among sails and rigging, the squeal of parrel or sheave, and the grinding of the rudder, the stillness was broken into by the “churr” of countless insects, the monotonous whistle of a large bat, the muffled boom of the surf, and the shrill falsetto of a native dog. And, lastly, my mind was in a whirl with the thoughts and speculations concerning the new phase of life to which the morrow was to introduce me and which I was indeed still turning over when the bugle from the Hausa lines announced the coming of the day, and the dawn began to filter in between the jalousies of my window.

CHAPTER III.
I HEAR STRANGE STORIES AND VAGUE RUMOURS.

Of the details of my life during the time that I remained in charge of the store it is not my intention to speak, for, although every day brought with it some new incident which interested me then as it does now to recall, yet few of the events of my busy and laborious life had any relation to those subsequent adventures and strange occurrences which it is the purpose of this narrative to describe.

I shall therefore content myself by giving a brief account of my manner of life at Quittáh, and of the one or two events that determined my subsequent destiny.

When I first took charge of the store, being ignorant alike of all the native languages and of the value of both the trade goods that I sold and the produce that I was to buy, the Captain secured for me the assistance of Vanderpuye, who, although a Fanti by birth, had been settled many years in Quittáh. But in a week I was able to manage the business alone, or, at least, with the aid of one native assistant only.

It was a curious life, less distasteful than I had expected, but very hard work, for I had to be in the store soon after daybreak and remained until near sunset, with only a short interval at midday.

I would earnestly recommend any explorer who wishes to attain to an intimate knowledge of the people amongst whom he is dwelling, to open a store and trade with them, for by so doing he will obtain an acquaintance with their language, appearance, dress, habits, tastes, disposition, and the natural productions of their country, which it is practically impossible to reach under any other circumstances. To the trader, as to one engaged in a rational and intelligible pursuit, the native exhibits himself as he is, without any more reserve or deception than the particular transaction seems to require, while to the professed explorer he shows himself full of suspicion and perversity. The mere pursuit of knowledge he neither understands nor believes in, but attributes to the investigator some hidden and sinister motive for his inquiries; whereas the actions and objects of the trader, differing in nowise from those of native merchants, are perfectly comprehensible to him. Hence the trader is treated by the native with a frank familiarity in great contrast to the cautious reserve that is exhibited towards the traveller, the official or the missionary.

It thus happened that, before I had been ashore a month, I had begun to get some insight into the manners and customs of the negro as applied to commerce. My natural facility in picking up languages, too, to which I have already referred, stood me in good stead, for I soon acquired a quite useful collection of phrases in the local dialects, particularly in the barbarous and unmusical Efé language which was spoken around Quittáh, and the hardly more euphonious Adángme of the people who came from beyond the Volta River.

I also began to learn, but in a more systematic manner, the simpler and really melodious language of Hausa, of which Pereira had on his shelves a dictionary and some selections by Dr. Schön. This was indeed less useful than the local tongues, but I was not without the means of exercising it, for it was spoken by the native troops, or Hausa constabulary, who were constantly making small purchases at the store, and by the itinerant merchants from the interior, whose visits were somewhat rare, but who, when they did come, were rather extensive buyers.

It was from one of these travelling merchants that I received the first of the series of impulses that finally sent me wandering into the unknown interior. This man, a Hausa named Amádu Dandaúra, arrived at Quittáh when I had been there about two months, in company with his two sons and a small caravan of slaves.

He was a man of some substance, and as he came day after day to purchase goods for the markets of the interior, I used to have a mat spread for him in the store, on which he would sit and make his purchases in the leisurely, chaffering manner so characteristic of the native trader.

But it was impossible to keep his attention fixed on business matters, for, being a perfectly indefatigable talker and having apparently had many strange adventures, he used to collect quite a considerable audience of his countrymen from the Fort and the lines to listen to his spirited narrations. While he was discoursing in this manner I would often, if I had leisure, lounge hard by and listen, trying to follow the conversation but never succeeding, for, not only was my acquaintance with the language insufficient, but, as I presently discovered, neither Amádu nor the soldiers pronounced the words as they were spelt in my books.

But although unable to make out the matter of Amádu’s discourse, I succeeded in picking out one or two phrases, which, as they often recurred and were received by the listeners with a great show of surprise, I conjectured to be an important part of the merchant’s story.

One of these phrases was “Matári ’n seliki” or “King’s treasure house”; another was “Makáfi dayáwa,” “a number of blind men.” When I had with some difficulty translated these phrases and committed to memory some detached words which seemed to be the names of places—such as Diádasu, Tánosu, Insúta, and Kumási—I had learned all that I was destined to learn of Amádu’s story, for my assistant, Daniel Kudjo, spoke not a word of Hausa, and few of the Hausas spoke more than half a dozen words of English; and thus my curiosity, which had been strongly aroused by these mysterious phrases, had to remain unsatisfied.

But a curious light was thrown on the subject by Pereira in the course of a conversation that I had with him one evening.

It was my invariable custom at this time, on returning home from the store, heated and fatigued with the endless weighing of rubber, kernels and copra, and measuring of countless demijohns of palm oil in the glaring compound, or rummaging amongst the bales and cases in the store, to spend the long evenings, after my bath and dinner, lolling in a great chair, pipe in mouth, while the old gentleman reclined in a hammock and entertained me with his reminiscences of life in West Africa.

We were talking on this occasion about the Ashanti war, then just concluded, and were discussing the indemnity of sixty thousand ounces of gold claimed by the British Government.

“It seems an enormous sum,” I remarked. “Nearly two hundred and forty thousand pounds. One would not expect the king of a barbarous tribe like the Ashantis to possess such a reserve of wealth as that.”

“Probably he does not,” replied Pereira, “and probably the indemnity will never be paid. Perhaps,” he added with a dry smile, “your judicious Government never intended it to be paid. A debt that cannot be met is sometimes of great use to the creditor.”

“Then you think that the king of Ashanti doesn’t possess sixty thousand ounces?”

“Who knows?” replied Pereira, deliberately rolling a cigarette. “One hears wonderful stories of the store of gold in the Royal Treasury at Bantamá, but then no one has seen it, and an African’s idea of a large sum is so different from that of a rich European Government.”

He lighted his cigarette and stared absently at a gecko that was creeping stealthily along the ceiling towards a corpulent black moth.

“It is probable,” he remarked presently, after blowing a cloud of smoke up towards the unconscious gecko, “that there are really large hoards of gold scattered about the country, but these are not available for the king’s use.”

“How is that?” I asked.

“Why, you see, among the African tribes the custom exists of making over certain treasures to particular fetishes. Here a rich gold mine is shut down and given to one fetish; here a river that has alluvial gold in its bed is made sacred to another fetish; here a mountain containing a rich vein of quartz is ‘busum’—sacred; here a temple has a hoard of gold raised from the sacred mine, or washed from the sacred river. If you travel in the interior you will constantly meet with fetish mountains—you can see one, the Adáklu mountain, from this verandah on a clear day—and every river of any size that you cross is sacred to some fetish or other; and probably nearly all those rivers and mountains are rich in gold.”

“It is a curious custom,” I remarked.

“Not so very unlike our own,” the old man replied, with a dry smile, that spread out a fan of wrinkles on either temple; “think of the South American churches that your countrymen looted; think of the shrines in my own poor country, and think of the fetish treasures that your king Henry laid his strong hands upon. No, Englefield, man is much the same all the world over—love, war, greed, and superstition are the forces that move him, whether his skin be white, black, red or yellow, and whether his house is in the frozen North or the sunny Tropics.”

I was amused at this philosophic outburst on the part of my host, who, having delivered himself of these truths, resumed his abstracted observation of the gecko.

That reptile, having captured the moth, proceeded to devour it, scattering fragments of its wings down on to the table; after which it suddenly started in pursuit of another gecko, presumably a female, which had made its appearance on the ceiling.

Pereira nodded at the lizard.

“See, Englefield,” he said, “even the little house-master is no different. He has his business to attend to like us, and now that he has filled his belly, he finds leisure to attend to the affairs of his cold little heart.”

I laughed at this mild pleasantry, but as the old gentleman appeared to be wandering away from the subject of our talk I gently led him back to it.

“Is the situation of any of these fetish hoards known?” I asked.

“To the natives a good many of them are,” replied Pereira. “You see, they are quite safe; no native would incur the displeasure of the fetish by attempting a robbery—not even an invading tribe, for the invader believes in and respects the local fetish. Of course, towards the white men the natives preserve a good deal of secrecy, but still I have heard indirectly of one or two of the sacred hoards.”

“Have you really?” I exclaimed.

“Yes. The accounts have been generally rather vague, but one or two were quite clear, although I can’t vouch for their truth. It is said, for instance, that by the side of the caravan road from Ashánti to Kong there is a mass of gold sticking up out of the ground like an ant-hill. Nobody can touch it because it is guarded by a fetish who would instantly destroy the sight of any person who should attempt to seize it; and this, it seems, is firmly believed even by the Mahommedans of Kong. Then there is a queer story about the Aboási pool near the source of the Tano River in the north of Ashánti. It is said that the head waters gush out of a great rock with tusks like an elephant—whence the name Abo-ase, under the rock—and fall into a still pool, the floor of which is thickly coated with gold dust. Now all this gold is sacred to the great Tano fetish (or abúsum, to speak more correctly), and it is said to be protected from possible pilferers by a bodyguard of huge, ferocious fishes, which swim about in the depth of the pool.”

“That sounds pretty far fetched,” I remarked.

“It does,” agreed Pereira, “although it doesn’t do to be too sceptical, you know. However, the rest of the story is, I must admit, quite incredible. It is reported that near Aboási is a large cavern which forms the treasure-house of the Tano fetish, and here the fetish priests live with a number of slaves or prisoners, all of whom have had their eyes put out. Once a month a party of the prisoners are taken on to the lake in a canoe and are made to dredge up the gold-bearing sand in copper buckets, and when they have got up a sufficient quantity they are taken back to the cave. There it is supposed that they spend their time in washing out the gold under the direction of the priests, and working it into ingots or ornaments, and it is said that the treasure accumulated in the cave is enormous. Twice a year the King of Ashánti is reported to send to Aboási a party of his executioners with a fresh batch of prisoners whose eyes are put out as soon as they arrive. Then a similar number of the oldest prisoners are killed as a sacrifice to the fetish, and their bodies thrown into the lake to the sacred fishes; after which the executioners receive a tribute of the fetish gold for the king, and return to Kumási.”

“You don’t suppose that there is any truth in that story, do you?” I asked, as Pereira finished his recital.

“I certainly do not imagine it to be true,” he replied. “But as I have said, we should not be too incredulous, for the longer one lives in Africa the more does one realise that it is a land of wonders.”

This story of Pereira’s, wildly improbable as it was, made a considerable impression upon me, for not only is it true, as my host had remarked, that Africa is a land of strange and unexpected happenings, but to a newcomer like myself, the novelty of the surroundings, and the total contrast to the conditions of life in prosaic, workaday England, produce an impression of unreality that vitiates the standard of probability. I recalled, too, the mysterious references of Amádu Dandaúra to the “treasure-house” and the “blind men” of Tánosu, and bitterly regretted that I had not taken the opportunity of learning from him more about the weird and dreadful cavern of Aboási, if such a place really existed.

CHAPTER IV.
I VISIT A GRAVEYARD AND MEET A BLIND MAN.

I do not know whether in the preceding pages I have made the reader understand what manner of place Quittáh is. Probably I have not, and a few words of description may be useful before proceeding further.

Quittáh, then, is one of a row of towns or villages dotted along a narrow tongue of sand which stretches from the mouth of the river Volta with a few interruptions to the Niger Delta. On one side of this isthmus is the ocean and on the other a chain of large lagoons, and so narrow is the space separating sea and lagoon that, in many places, travellers proceeding along the latter in canoes can not only hear the boom of the surf upon the beach outside, but can see the white crests of the waves over the low-lying shore.

Thus from the peculiarity of its position Quittáh was very much like a small island. From the sea one was cut off by the dangerous surf; from the adjacent villages of Jella-Koffi and Voja by the loose, shifting sand which it was almost impossible to walk upon, while between us and the mainland the lagoon spread out like an inland sea, right away to the horizon.

This mainland, of which I heard occasional reports from native traders, became to me a source of continually increasing curiosity. From the lagoon-side market, where I often stood watching the fleets of canoes unloading their little freights of produce on to the “hard,” it was, as I have said, invisible, and the lagoon stretched, an unbroken waste of water as far as the eye could see. But from our verandah a few palms could be seen upon the other side, their heads just standing above the horizon, while on very clear days one could discern the dim and shadowy shape of the Adáklu—a solitary mountain some seventy miles distant in the interior.

It happened one evening that as I stood on the verandah, telescope in hand, dividing my attention between the cloudlike mountain and the fleet of canoes returning homewards from the market, Pereira came out, and flinging himself into a squeaking Madeira chair, began to roll a cigarette, regarding me meanwhile with an indulgent smile.

“I often wonder, Englefield,” he said presently, “what it is that you are continually spying at through that telescope. Surely the lagoon and the canoes and the palms and the pelicans are pretty commonplace objects by this time, and I think they comprise the entire landscape.”

“Certainly,” I replied, “the outlook is a little monotonous; but yet somehow it attracts me, and I find myself continually wondering what there is behind the horizon there.”

“Then wonder no longer, my friend,” said Pereira, “but come with me to-morrow and see for yourself. I have to go to Anyáko to visit a branch store that I have there, and as to-morrow is Sunday I propose that we make my business visit into a picnic. But don’t imagine that there is anything to see. Conceive Quittáh with pink clay instead of grey sand, with ant hills in place of sand dunes; add to the cocoa-nut palms a few gum trees and baobabs, and substitute a slightly different stink, and there is Anyáko.”

“Any white people?” I inquired.

“Not now,” answered Pereira. “There was a mission station there once, but the missionaries died off as fast as they were sent out, so the station was abandoned. You’ll see the graves and the remains of the chapel to-morrow.”

On the following morning I met Pereira by the lagoon-side just as the sun was rising, but early as was the hour, all the necessary preparations for the journey were completed. Half a dozen of the long flat-bottomed canoes (each fashioned from a single log of silk-cotton-wood) such as the natives use, were drawn up by the “hard” or landing-place, and of these the largest was evidently set apart for our use, for it contained two Madeira chairs, and even as I approached I observed Aochi, Pereira’s servant, stowing in the bows a green gin case from which protruded the necks of two claret bottles.

The lagoon at this hour was perfectly still, with a dull, unruffled surface like a sheet of polished lead, and was overhung by a shroud of yellowish rosy mist. A quite unusual silence brooded over the scene—for ordinarily Quittáh with the strong sea breeze, the chattering cocoa-nut palms and the boisterous natives, is rather a noisy place—through which the giant pulse of the ocean could be heard booming rhythmically upon the beach.

We had no sooner taken our places than the two canoe men—each provided with a long crooked pole forked at the end—pushed off and began to propel the canoe at quite a rapid rate. In a few minutes the shore had vanished into the mist, and for the next hour we moved smoothly on with nothing to mark our progress but some chance floating stick or an occasional solitary pelican that emerged from the mist, slid across our circumscribed field of view and faded away again before we had time for mutual examination. Presently the sun began to appear through the haze like a disc of burnished copper, and then the sea breeze came down, dimming the surface of the water and driving before it row after row of little hollow ripples that slapped noisily on the flat side of the canoe. As the mist cleared there appeared before us a low-lying shore clothed with fan palms and a few lank and ragged trees, and one or two thatched roofs and a single whitewashed building could be seen half hidden among the foliage. Nearly opposite this building the canoe presently grounded in some six inches of water, and the two stalwart canoe-men, stepping overboard, proceeded to lift Pereira and me bodily out of our chairs and carry us through the shallows, depositing us at length on dry land.

“Well, Englefield,” observed Pereira, stretching himself and stamping on the dry mud, “here we are in your promised land, and here comes Aochi with the chop box. Breakfast, Aochi, one time. We’ll have our food first, and then I’ll see about my business while you take a walk in the garden of Eden.”

We breakfasted in the mouldy-looking “hall” of the decaying mission house, on the inevitable spatchcock and plantain fritters (“pranteen flitters” Aochi called them) from the green box, and then Pereira betook himself to the village, leaving me to roam about in the bush. It was not a lovely spot, I was compelled to admit, but it was new to me and a change from Quittáh. There were bushes and trees and fan palms and actual solid earth of a curious pink colour—a great relief after the eternal loose grey sand. And there were great snails with shells striped like a zebra’s skin, and curious vole-like animals, and large birds that uttered sounds like the whirring of an invalid chime clock, and great ant-hills: in short, there were multitudes of things that I had never seen before, so that I spent a couple of hours very pleasantly poking about among the bushes. Making my way back towards the village I stopped to examine a large and incredibly corpulent baobab tree from whose branches the velvet-covered fruit hung down on long straight stalks. I was about to move on when I perceived among the bushes a low mud wall, and looking over it found that it formed one side of a square enclosure.

“This,” I thought, “must be the old mission garden,” and forthwith I resolved to explore it in case any of the fruit trees should be still bearing.

Scaling the low crumbling wall, I entered and looked about me. The whole place was choked with a riotous profusion of vegetation. The ground was almost hidden by the feathery masses of the little sensitive mimosa, whose leaves shrink away and close up at a touch; low bushes and small trees were scattered about, and here and there clumps of cactus and branching euphorbias rose out of the tangle. But of cultivation there was no trace.

The most singular feature of the place was the large number of ant-hills—sugar-loafed structures of bright red earth from eight to ten feet high—of which a dozen or more were grouped quite near together. From one of these I noticed an angular piece of white stone projecting, and, wondering how a piece of stone could have got into such a situation, I drew out my knife and endeavoured to dig it out, when to my astonishment it turned out to be one arm of a monumental cross around which the ant-hill had been built.

This discovery led me to examine the place more narrowly, with the result that, by dragging aside creepers and bushes and scraping away portions of other ant-hills, I found no less than seven flat gravestones, each with a marble tablet let into it on which was engraved a name and a scripture reference. All the names were German, and mostly those of men.

So this was all that was left of the Anyáko mission! It was a solemn sight to look upon, and fraught with a suggestiveness that was by no means pleasant; one of those disagreeable reminders with which West Africa is apt to salute the intrusive white man.

I sat down upon a flat slab that I had just cleared, lost in gloomy meditation, insensibly contrasting the bright face of nature with the sad and pathetic relics around; glancing at the blue, sunny sky, the gay vegetation, the gem-like sun birds that hovered round the cactus, and the great blue-bodied lizard that nodded his scarlet head at me from the top of an ant-hill, and thinking of the “pestilence that walketh in the noon-day” amidst all this exuberant life and light.

My reflections were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the path outside, and looking up, I perceived a figure approaching which, by its tall black hat, long black coat and black umbrella could be that of none other than Pereira.

“Aha!” he exclaimed as he came up. “Meditating among the tombs? And a very fitting occupation for a coaster.” He furled his umbrella, and leaning his arms on the wall, looked round.

“Yes,” he continued, “here is West Africa in a nutshell; a most concise epitome. I knew all these men, Englefield, and the first of them came here less than a dozen years ago. And here they are; and so the world wags in Africa. The white man comes out full of life and energy and purpose. The jungle laughs and covers him up and he is straightway forgotten. Then more come, and the act is repeated da capo, and so on. But what have we here?”

I stood up and looked over the wall. Two natives were coming towards us along the path, one an aged woman, white-haired, lean and shrivelled, and the other a middle-aged man who held the woman’s hand with one of his and with the other grasped a long staff with which he tapped upon the ground before him as he walked.

There was nothing remarkable in the appearance of the old woman, excepting the fan-like group of radiating scars on her temples which showed that she belonged to the Krepi tribe. But the aspect of the man was most horrible. His body was to the last degree emaciated; his face was so seamed and disfigured with scars as to be hardly human; his neck was covered with a pattern of warty button-like scars; his ears had been carved out into scallops like a cock’s comb, and his empty eye-sockets were so sunken that his face was like that of a dry skull.

As the pair came up to where we were standing, Pereira addressed them in the Efé language, and I gathered that he was inquiring after the man’s health; but although his manner was kind and sympathetic enough, his questions were received with sullen reserve, and after a very brief conversation, the old woman put an end to the interview by abruptly seizing the man’s arm and hurrying him away.

Pereira looked after them with a puzzled expression on his face, as the old woman strode along and the man, with chin stuck forward and his stick groping before him, stumbled by her side.

“There goes another African mystery,” my friend remarked turning to me.

“How so?” I asked. “What did the old lady say?”

“Oh, she said,” replied Pereira, “that she had brought her son all the way from Peki to see the white doctor at Quittáh.”

“Well, he does certainly look a trifle off colour,” I remarked. “Did the old woman say how he lost his eyes?”

“Ah! that was the question that gave so much offence. Her explanation was that he had some kind of sickness as a child, but she was not inclined to be confidential, as you saw.”

“No, indeed. But I suppose there is a good deal of eye disease here as in other tropical countries?”

“Oh, certainly there is; but I suspect that the disease that cost him his sight was somehow connected with a flat iron rod with a hook at the end.”

“Good God!” I exclaimed, “you don’t mean to say that you think his eyes have been put out?”

“That is my belief,” answered Pereira. “Didn’t you notice his eye-sockets with never a vestige of eyeball left? And did you see his ears and his neck? Those were no tribal marks. That man has been an Ashanti ‘donkor’ or alien slave. I remember once before meeting a blind man—also a Krepi—with just the same appearance and marked in the same manner, and he was just as reticent as this one; and he, I learned for certain, had been one of the King’s slaves in Ashanti, but I never could find out anything more about him.”

“And he had had his eyes put out?”

“Evidently, although he told the same story of illness in childhood as this one.”

“What an extraordinary and horrible thing!” I exclaimed. “Why, it recalls that ghastly yarn of yours about the Aboási cavern.”

“I was just thinking the same myself. But come, that villain Aochi will have our coffee ready by now, and we ought to be starting for home presently. It doesn’t do to be overtaken by darkness on the lagoon.”

During the return passage across the lagoon the usually loquacious and discursive Pereira preserved an unwonted silence, and I surmised that he was thinking of the old Krepi woman and her son. That this was actually the case appeared later, for after he had wished me “good-night” and was retiring to his room he paused in the doorway and looked back at me.

“I can’t help thinking of that poor blind devil, Englefield,” he said. “What fearful sufferings he must have gone through, and what constant terror he must be in lest he should be discovered and dragged back to his slavery. But miserable wretch as he is, he has the advantage of you and me in one thing, if it can be considered an advantage: he holds the key to some of the darkest secrets of this mysterious land.”

CHAPTER V.
I ENCOUNTER A CURIOUS RELIC.

A couple of days after our excursion to Anyáko I received a letter by the land post from Captain Bithery. It was dated from Axím on the Gold Coast, and in it, after giving me sundry items of news concerning the brig and her crew, the Captain went on to say that he proposed to drop down to the leeward coast in about a fortnight to ship some produce that he hoped to obtain. This produce, consisting chiefly of palm oil, kernels and copra, was to be collected for him by a certain Cæsar Olympio—a Portuguese mulatto who lived at the village of Adena or Elmina Chica, a beach village some twelve miles to leeward—i.e. to the east—of Quittáh; and he proposed that I should proceed to Adena to conduct the purchase and superintend the storage of the produce, leaving my store in Vanderpuye’s charge.

On receiving these instructions I made the necessary arrangements with Pereira, and the same afternoon set out for Adena in a spare hammock which he lent me and which was carried on the heads of four of our labourers.

This was my first experience of this mode of travelling, and very pleasant and even luxurious I found it to recline at full length in the springy, swaying hammock as the barefooted carriers trudged over the soft sand. A canopy of painted canvas protected me from the sun during the daylight and from the dew when the night closed in, and by peering underneath it I could look out at the groves of pattering cocoa-nut palms on the one side, and on the other at the ocean which surged up almost at our feet.

It was about eight o’clock and bright moonlight when the hammock drew up outside the compound of Olympio’s house, and as I scrambled out on to my feet I was saluted by a little yellow-faced man with bright, beady, black eyes and a most persuasive and conciliatory smile.

“You are Mr. Olympio?” I said as I shook his hand.

“Quite right,” he replied in a singularly soft and musical voice, adding, “I bid you welcome to Adena. Will you please to come in?”

I followed him into the house, a mud-built thatched cottage of three rooms, and immediately became aware of an aromatic and savoury odour, and perceived with great content that preparations—of a somewhat primitive nature indeed—had been made for a meal.

I was not the only guest, it appeared, for, as I entered, a native in European dress—what is locally known as a “scholar man”—rose to greet me. He was the very antithesis of Olympio—big, burly, black as the ace of spades, and full of the boisterous humour and high spirits of the typical African; and as he gripped me by the hand and bid me welcome to Adena his joy overflowed in little gurgles of laughter.

“Glad to see you, Mr. Englefield,” he said in a deep buzzing bass. “I hear your name plenty time but never see you. Now I see you very fine gentleman. Ha! ha! ha!” Here he leered at Olympio, who keckled softly and rubbed his hands.

“Mr. Englefield smell de palaver sauce, hey! Olympio?” continued my new friend, whose name, by the way, was David Annan. “You like dis country chop, sah?”

I replied that I had very little acquaintance with African cookery.

“Aha! no! You no get fine country wife like Olympio to make you palaver sauce. Dis yer Olympio he sabby what be good. He sabby fine chop, fine liquor, fine girl. He very bad man, sah, ha! ha!”

He laughed uproariously, and certainly the picture of the little wizened mulatto in the character of a bon vivant and lady-killer was not without its comic side. But these flights of wit were cut short by the appearance of a handsome, light-coloured Fanti woman who carried a deep, black clay dish, and was followed by a procession of small girls and boys each bearing some adjunct to the feast, and soon the little table, with its red and yellow-striped cloth, groaned under a burden of delicacies. The black dish was filled with a gorgeous orange-coloured palm oil stew, while smaller but similar receptacles exhibited such dainties as kiki, or okro stew, rolls of fufu, looking like gelatinous suet puddings, stuffed egg-fruit, large red capsicums and piles of green and red chillis.

That dinner was a series of surprises, of which I experienced the first when I unguardedly swallowed a spoonful of the orange-red “palaver sauce” and was instantly reduced to tears and suffocation. But the most surprising thing of all was the behaviour of Mr. David Annan. He commenced the meal by popping into his mouth and calmly masticating a large scarlet capsicum. He next pinched off a lump of fufu and, indenting it with his thumb, fashioned it into a kind of cup which he filled with the peppery stew and solemnly bolted with closed eyes like a toad swallowing a caterpillar. Finally, he poured out half a tumblerful of Angostura bitters and drained it at a draught. After this my capacity for astonishment was exhausted, and if he had proceeded to quench his thirst with the contents of the paraffin lamp and to swallow the forks it would have seemed quite in character. But he did neither of these things, and the meal dragged on to the end with no further diversion from my sufferings.

Shortly after dinner Mr. Annan took his leave, earnestly beseeching me to keep an eye on Olympio and endeavour to restrain him from the wild excesses into which it was his habit to plunge, and the little mulatto and I then settled down to pass the evening together.

The proceedings were not as boisterous as Annan’s warning might have led one to expect, for Olympio was a shy and silent man, and, moreover, unaccustomed to the society of Europeans; so we sat at opposite ends of the table, with a calabash full of chopped tobacco-leaf between us, and engaged in conversation which was so spasmodic and one-sided that it gradually “dwindled away into silence.” Then we sat speechless for some time, during which Olympio observed me continuously, and whenever he caught my eye chuckled softly and rubbed his hands, until I became possessed with an insane desire to empty the tobacco-leaf over him and bonnet him with the calabash.

But he saved me from this outrage by retiring to dive into a cupboard, whence he returned carrying a biscuit tin and a weather-beaten musical-box.

“You are perhaps fond of music, Mr. Englefield?”

“Very,” I replied, with an apprehensive glance at the musical-box.

“So am I,” said Olympio, and he proceeded to wind up the instrument; and having balanced it upside down and cornerwise in the biscuit tin—the only position in which it would consent to go—he “gave it its head.”

It had but one tune, but of that it made the most, repeating it in every variety of time; commencing with obscene hilarity, retarding to funereal slowness and stopping in the most unexpected places.

I felt the old insane impulse reviving, and as I had no wish to see my host fly from the room with his head through his own calabash, I brought the entertainment to a close.

“I think, if you will excuse me, Mr. Olympio, I should like to turn in. The hammock journey has rather tired me.”

“I shall be most delighted, sir,” replied Olympio, with less politeness and more truth than he supposed. “I will show you your room in a moment. Hi! Kwaku! why you no bring Mr. Englefield his candle?”

The latter question was bawled through the open door into the darkness of the back compound, from which presently emerged a small boy bearing a paraffin lamp, which he shaded skilfully from the strong sea breeze. Olympio took the lamp and led the way into my bedroom, which opened out of the room in which we had been sitting. He held the lamp above his head as we entered, and looked round the room with evident pride in the resources of civilisation that it exhibited. It was indeed far beyond my expectations, and I hastened to say so, for Adena was but a remote native hamlet and little could be expected there but the ordinary accommodation of a native house. Yet there was a good iron bedstead with clean white sheets and a serviceable mosquito curtain, a washstand with a veritable china basin, and a dressing-table fitted with a looking-glass fully nine inches square. But the most surprising and unexpected object in the room was a small but massive oak chest of drawers with a secretary top, which I at once perceived, both from its quaint and antique design and the dark colour of the wood, must be of considerable age.

“That is a fine piece of furniture, Mr. Olympio,” I remarked. “There are not many like it in Africa, I expect.”

“No,” he replied, setting the lamp on it and passing his hand affectionately over its polished surface. “I have never seen one like it even in the castle at Elmina. It is very old. My grandfather had it in his house at Adáffia when my father was a child, I have heard him say.”

“Did he bring it out from Portugal with him?”

“Oh, no. It came from a ship that broke up on the beach at Adáffia many, many years ago. I have heard that she was English.”

“You don’t know her name, then?”

“No. It was long, long time ago—before my grandfather’s time, I think. I have told Kwaku to put your things in the drawers. I thought you would like it because the chest is an English chest. I don’t give it to the Germans who come here.”

He smiled shyly and backed towards the door, and when I had thanked him—which I did warmly—for this graceful little act of courtesy, he wished me “good-night” and went away much gratified.

Left to myself I made leisurely preparations for bed, ruminating, as I undressed and washed, upon the strange fortunes of the old ship’s chest, speculating upon its history, upon the men who had fashioned it, on the old-time skipper who had sat before it to write his old-world letters, and on the bills of lading, charter-parties, and other sea documents that had once reposed in its pigeon-holes and drawers.

When I had got into my pyjamas I lit a pipe—not of Olympio’s tobacco—and taking down the lamp made a more thorough examination of the chest. Its nautical character was now evident, for on each side, near the bottom, was a perforated chock through which a lanyard had been passed to secure it to a ring-bolt in the deck of the cabin. The ornamentation, too, savoured of the sea, for the drawers were enriched by rude shallow carvings of ropes in festoons, coils and hitches, and each corner terminated above in a kind of diminutive figure-head representing a buxom, blowsy sea-maiden with a very full bust and a dolphin’s tail. The handles of the drawers were of hippo ivory, carved with a knife and now cracked and yellow with age, and the flap that let down to form the writing-table had once been decorated with a painted design, but this was now obliterated.

I drew out the sliding supports and let down the flap, intending to stow away my stationery in the upper part conveniently for writing. Here I found a row of drawers, and one of pigeon-holes above them, while the centre was occupied by a little tabernacle-like cupboard, the door of which was decorated with a roughly executed painting, very yellow and faded, of a sea-maiden, similar to those carved on the corners. When I opened this door there was revealed a set of four very small drawers, all of which were empty; and I noticed, when I pulled out one, that it was only half the length of the drawers below the pigeon-holes. Evidently this little nest of drawers masked some secret repository—if that could be described as “secret” which was so artlessly concealed. Now, there is something highly stimulating to curiosity in the idea of a secret drawer or cupboard, no matter how transparent the secrecy may be, and I had no sooner ascertained the existence of this hiding-place than I was all agog to lay bare its secret.

First I drew the drawers right out and felt at the back, thinking there might be a cavity there; but the back of the drawer-case was quite unyielding. Then I noticed that the nest which held the drawers was a separate and independent structure let into the row of pigeon-holes, and not continuous with them; so I took hold of one of the partitions between the drawer spaces and gave a gentle pull, when, sure enough, the whole nest came sliding forward, and I lifted it bodily out of the cavity in which it fitted.

The back of the nest was formed by a panel, which I could see slid in grooves, and I was about to slide it up when I suddenly bethought me that I was perhaps invading the holy of holies of my too-confiding host, who might quite conceivably make the secret drawers behind the panel the repository of his most treasured possessions. However, I considered that, even if it were so, I had no intention of abstracting anything, while most likely the drawers were empty, so banishing my scruples I boldly slid up the panel.

There were no drawers inside, but in place of them a flat copper box which stood upright in the cavity and fitted it exactly. The green, encrusted condition of this box seemed to indicate that it was not often taken out, and when I drew it forth and tried to open it, the close-fitting lid was jammed to so tightly that I had to prise it open with my knife, when I found that it had an air-tight flange like the lid of a snuff box. Inside the box, and exactly fitting it, was a small folio volume bound in parchment. This I supposed to be Olympio’s book of accounts, but I nevertheless shook it out of its case and turned back the cover, when I perceived a pale and faded inscription on the fly leaf in an odd, crabbed handwriting, but yet adorned with several expert flourishes.

This was the inscription: “The Journall of Barnabas Hogg, Master of the ship Mermaid, of Bristol City. 1641-16—” The second date was not filled in, and I surmised that the journal and its writer had together come to an untimely end in the roaring surf of Adáffia beach. This was rendered more probable by the fact that the book had remained in its hiding-place, for, had the Captain survived he would presumably have taken his journal with him: a view which received confirmation when I turned up the last entry, which was near the end of the volume, and read:

“16 June (1643). We are still at anchor off Adáffia, but shall not remain here since there seemeth to be little trade with this wild and turbulent people who have brought us but a few elephant’s teeth (and those very small and poor) and some teeth of river horses. Moreover the sudden storms of this season of the year do make this roadstead most perilous for ships to anchor in.”

That was the end of the journal. Doubtless on the day following, the very danger that the Captain had foreseen overtook the ship, and as for poor Master Barnabas himself and his hearts of oak, they all probably perished in the surf or fell victims to the “wild and turbulent” people of the coast villages.

There was something very solemn in this unexpected meeting with the quaint and musty little volume. On that June evening, more than two centuries ago, the final entry had been written and the book put away by the methodical Master of the good ship Mermaid. And there it had in all probability remained, unseen by human eye, its very existence forgotten, while generation after generation was born and passed away, while dynasties rose, flourished and decayed. As I turned over its yellow leaves covered with faded writing I felt like one holding converse with the dead (as indeed I was), and so fell into a train of meditation from which I was at length aroused by the little American clock in the sitting-room banging out with blatant modernity the hour of midnight. So I rose, knocked out my pipe, replaced and closed up the secret cupboard, and, having deposited the journal in my dispatch box, turned into bed.

CHAPTER VI.
THE JOURNAL OF CAPTAIN BARNABAS HOGG.

My stay at Adena was somewhat of a holiday until the brig arrived, for, although the amount of produce to be examined was greater than I should have obtained at Quittáh in the same time, the actual purchase of it was effected by Olympio, so that I could deal with it in bulk; and then there was no store to look after and no selling of goods to the natives. Hence, I had a good deal of time on my hands, a part of which I utilised for outdoor pursuits, and the remainder I spent lounging about with a book in the shady cocoa-nut grove near the beach by day, and in my room at night. I had brought one or two books with me to Adena, but these paled in interest before the manuscript journal, over which I pored, at first secretly, and then, as I found that no one noticed what I read, constantly, until I read the antique handwriting of Captain Hogg with as much ease as Olympio’s ungrammatical copperplate.

Fascinating, however, as I found the journal, I shall not inflict upon the reader any of the entries but those that have reference to this narrative. I had read through the whole of the diary for the year 1641; had examined the quaint, rough sketches and charts of the coast line with which it was embellished and amplified, and had made extensive notes of the descriptions and comments of the shrewd and observant old ship master, when on a certain afternoon some four days before the brig was due at Adena, I took the old volume out with me on to the beach, and spreading a mat on the dry sand under the cocoa-nuts lay down to read at my ease. Commencing with the date “New Year’s Day, 1642,” I read through the first dozen entries. They contained nothing of interest but plentiful details of the trading transactions on the Ivory Coast, off which the ship was then cruising, details that were now familiar and a little monotonous. This lack of interest in the narrative, combined with the heat and the rather somnolent surroundings, the patter of the palms overhead, the endless murmur of the sea-breeze, and the surging of the surf hard by, produced a feeling of drowsiness, and I was just letting the book fall when, recovering myself with a start, I observed on the opposite page an entry of considerable length. As this promised more entertainment than the briefer notes of trade and navigation with which I had been engaged, I plunged into it; and I had not read far before my drowsiness completely vanished and gave place to the keenest excitement.