“Just a few minutes more!” the big fellow pleaded. “Let me stay here just a little longer—on free soil—and dream!”
On another occasion a South African—a Negro—came aboard after writing us a note. Obviously well educated, a born leader, he was polite but wary. When he came aboard I offered my hand as a matter of course. He hesitated, then took it briefly.
We went below and spent a long afternoon. He told us, vividly, quietly, and without ranting, of the situation that existed in South Africa—from the black man’s point of view—and tried to explain why it could not last.
I remember what he said: “A man who drives a truck can drive a tank; a man who handles a shovel can handle a gun; a man who can read the Bible can read a sign telling him to rise up in revolt. They cannot use us as their tools without giving us some education; they cannot educate us without losing us.”
“Will there be an uprising?”
“There will be. There will be killing and destruction. There will be a return to barbarism—on both sides—in spite of all we can do. For the moment,” he added in measured tones, “the barbarism is on only one side—the government’s.”
“What will you do when the day comes?” I asked.
He looked at us calmly. “I will kill as many white men as I can, before I am killed myself.”
I rowed him to shore and when he got out he paused a moment—and then offered his hand to me.
“Today,” he told me, “was the first time in my life that a white man has ever shaken hands with me! Thank you—and do not stay in this unhappy place.”