“The average daily number is two,
“But to-day just seven have died, Sir,—
“Four men and three women; I wrote the loss
“At once in the log as my guide, Sir.
“I closely inspected every corpse,
“For these rascals have often a notion
“To feign themselves dead, in hopes that they
“May be thrown away into the ocean.
“I took the irons from off the dead,
“And according to usual custom
“Next morning early into the sea
“I bid the sailors thrust ’em.
“At once the sharks from out of the waves
“Shot up in countless legions;
“They love full dearly the niggers’ flesh,
“My boarders are they in these regions.
“They have follow’d after the track of the ship,
“Since we’ve left the land in the distance;
“The creatures smell the scent of a corpse
“With ravenous snuffling persistence.
“In truth ’tis a capital joke to see
“How after the bodies they follow;
“One takes the head, another a leg,
“While the rest the fragments swallow.
“Then round the ship contented they roll,
“When they’ve finished their eating and crunching
“And stare in my face, as if they sought
“To thank me for their luncheon.”—
Then spake Van Koek, as he sadly sigh’d,
When the Doctor his story had finish’d:
“How to lessen the evil? In what way best
“Can the rate of the deaths be diminish’d?”
The Doctor replied: “Many niggers have died
“By their own misconduct stealthy;
“Their breath’s so bad, that it poisons the air
“In the ship, and makes it unhealthy.
“Through lowness of spirits, too, many have died,
“And ennui, in this dreary stillness;
“I think that air and music and dance
“Would soon remove their illness.”—