My clothes had been torn off my back. What few rags remained I’d thrown away, wantin’ to get like the natives as fast as possible. My skin was still white, although it had tanned up a bit, but there wasn’t any mistakin’ me.
Our boys had got accustomed to the idea of a white man bein’ a slave, an’ they hadn’t run into the white men like the Fanti outfit had. Those Fantis had probably had a little white meat on their bill o’ fare for a change o’ diet; an’ some expedition or other had come along an’ mopped up on ’em. Anyhow, the idea of a white man as a fightin’ machine had registered good an’ strong with ’em.
There’s somethin’ funny about a native. They can say all they want to, but his fears are the big part of him, no matter how brave he gets. Those whirlin’ brands o’ fire wasn’t makin’ ’em feel any too good, an’ then when I come chargin’ down on ’em hell bent for election it was too much.
They wavered for a second, then gave a lot of yells on their own an’ started pell-mell down the trail, each one tryin’ to walk all over the heels of the boy in front.
Funny thing about a bunch of men once turnin’ tail to a fight. When they do it they get into a panic. It ain’t fear like one man or two men would feel fear. It’s a panic, a blind somethin’ that keeps ’em from thinkin’ or feelin’. All they want to do is to run. There ain’t any fight left in ’em.
It was awful what our crowd done to those boys. As soon as they started to run, the laddies with the spears started making corpses. An’ I was right in the lead o’ our bunch. Don’t ask me how I got them. I don’t know. I only know I was yellin’ an’ chargin’, when the whole Fanti outfit turned tail, an’ there I was, playin’ pig-stickin’ with the backs of a lot o’ runnin’ Fanti warriors for targets.
We gave up the chase after a while. We’d done enough damage, an’ there was a chance o’ trouble runnin’ too far into the jungle. The crowd ahead might organize an’ turn on us, an’ we’d got pretty well strung out along the jungle trail.
I herded the boys back, an’ there was a regular road o’ Fanti dead between us an’ where the main part o’ the battle had taken place.
Well, they called a big powwow around the camp fire after that. I seen Kk-Kk talkin’ to her old man, Yik-Yik, an’ I guess she was pretty proud of her slave. Anyhow, Yik-Yik sucked his lips into his mouth like he did when he was thinkin’, an’ then he called to me.
He got me in a ring o’ warriors before the fire, an’ he made a great speech. Then he handed me a bloody spear and shield, an’ daubed my chest with some sort of paint, an’ painted a coupla rings around my eyes, an’ put three stripes o’ paint on my cheeks.
Then all the warriors started jumpin’ around the fire, stampin’ their feet, wailin’ some sort of a weird chant. Every few steps they’d all slam their feet down on the hard ground in unison, an’ the leaves on the trees rattled with their stamping. It was a wild night.
Kk-Kk was interpreter. She told me they were givin’ me my liberty an’ adoptin’ me into the tribe as a great warrior. It was not right that such a mighty fighter should be the slave of a woman, she told me.
Well, there’s somethin’ funny about women the world over. They all talk peace an’ cooin’ dove stuff, but they all like to see a son-of-a-gun of a good scrap. Kk-Kk’s eyes were soft an’ glowin’ with pride, an’ I could see she was as proud of me as though she’d been my mother or sweetheart or somethin’.
An’ seein’ that look in her eyes did somethin’ to me. I’d been gettin’ sorta sweet on Kk-Kk without knowin’ it. She was a pretty enough lass for all her chocolate color. An’ she was a square shooter. She’d stuck up for me from the first, an’ if it hadn’t been for her I’d have been a meal instead of a slave. It was only natural that I should get to like her more an’ more. Then, when I’d got used to the native ideas an’ all that, she got to lookin’ pretty good to me.
Anyhow, there I was in love with her — yes, an’ I’m still in love with her. Maybe I did go native. What of it? There’s worse things, an’ Kk-Kk was a square shooter. I don’t care what color her skin was. An’ remember that she was the daughter of a king. There was royal blood in her veins, an’ that makes a difference, race, or color or what not.
Anyhow, like it or not, I was in love with her, an’ I still am.
Oh, I know I’m an old man now. Kk-Kk is awful old now if she’s livin’, because those natives get old quickly, an’ I ain’t no spring chicken myself. But I love her just the same.
Well, a white man is funny about his women. He ain’t got no patience. When he falls in love he falls strong, an’ he wants his girl. I didn’t have patience like the monkey-man had. I couldn’t wait around. I went to Kk-Kk the next day an’ told her about it.
It was at the ant meal time when we was packin’ fruit to ’em. I was still helpin’ her even if I wasn’t a slave any more. I did it because I wanted to.
Well, I told her; her eyes got all shiny, an’ she dropped the dried fruit in a heap an’ threw her arms around my neck, an’ she cried a bit, an’ made soft noises in the graduated monkey talk that is the real language of the tribe. Bein’ all excited that way, she forgot the language of the goldsmith an’ went back to the talk of her folks.
The ants came an’ got the fruit, an’ they crawled all over our feet eatin’ it. If she hadn’t been so happy, an’ if I hadn’t been so much in love we’d both have realized what it meant, the ants crawlin’ over us that way an’ not offerin’ to bite me, or actin’ hostile at all. It showed that I’d been makin’ friends with ’em on the side.
Well, after a while she broke away, an’ then she did some more cryin’ an’ explained that she was the daughter of the chief. The man that married her would be the chief of the tribe some day. That is, he’d be the husband of the tribe’s queen.
Now in that tribe the men bought their wives. The man who married Kk-Kk was the man who’d buy her hand from her old man. But, bein’ as she was the daughter of the chief, an’ the future queen of the tribe, it’d take more wealth to buy her hand than any single man in the tribe could muster.
She told me how many skins an’ how many hogs an’ how much dried meat an’ how many bows an’ arrows an’ spears, an’ how many pounds of the native tobacco an’ all that would be required.
I didn’t pay much attention to the long list of stuff she rattled off. I had over sixty pounds of pure gold cached then, an’ I felt like a millionaire.
After all, what was all this native stuff compared with what I had? I was a rich man for a common, ordinary sailor boy. I could take that gold right then an’ walk into any of the world’s market places an’ buy what I wanted. Yes, an’ there’s even been cases of women of the higher muck-a-mucks sellin’ themselves or their daughters in marriage for less than sixty pounds of pure gold.
Well, I laughed at Kk-Kk an’ told her not to worry. I’d buy her hand from the old man. I didn’t worry about the price. I was a sailor lad, an’ I had the hot blood of youth in my veins, an’ I was in love with Kk-Kk, an’ she was standin’ there with her eyes all limpid an’ misty an’ her arms around my neck, an’ I had sixty pounds of pure gold. What more could a man want?
An’ then I heard a noise an’ looked up.
There was the monkey-man, squattin’ on the branch of a tree an’ lookin’ at us, and his lips were workin’ back an’ forth from his teeth. He wasn’t sayin’ a word, but his lips worked up an’ down, an’ every time they’d work, his teeth showed through.