“We don’t know,” they answered, “for we got madly drunk last night on gin and rum, then we had a fight and cut each other. We were too stupidly intoxicated to remember which one cut the other, and who started the quarrel.”
“I am sorry the traders sell you such vile stuff. It maddens you when you drink it, and it is the chief cause among you of a great amount of sickness, and of a large number of the fights that occur between your towns and villages,” quietly and sadly replied the white man.
“Yes,” they asserted in chorus, “the traders are all as bad as the things they sell us.”
“No, they are not all bad,” sharply answered the white man, “and neither are all the articles they sell bad. You can buy from them good cloth for covering yourselves, blankets to keep you warm in the cold season, nails and tools for building your houses, soap, candles, saucepans, tins of provisions, and many other things that are good, and help to make your lives comfortable.”
“That is so,” they assented, “but when our heads ache with the bad gin, we forget the many good articles we can buy of them.”
“I know many of those traders,” continued the white man, “who hate selling gin and rum to you, and wish a law[[33]] could be enforced to stop all trade in them; but you are such fools, and will buy drink; and there is so large a profit on it that their masters in Mputu make them sell it to you.[[34]] Some of the traders are very good men, and perform many acts of kindness to you black people. Do your wives throw away all the pumpkins in their farms because a few have maggots in them?”
“No, of course not,” they sheepishly replied; “our wives throw only the rotten ones away.”
“Well,” rejoined the white man, “do not speak ill of all the traders because some cheat and rob you; nor condemn all their goods because they sell these accursed fiery waters that turn your towns into pandemoniums, and you into beasts and fiends. Buy the good articles they have, and let the bad ones alone.”
Bakula was astonished that the white man had not accused him of striking at his outstretched, friendly hand. He was in a quandary. Did the white man recognize him or not? Or was he simply waiting his opportunity to punish him for what he was now heartily ashamed? He was fearful lest the latter was the explanation, and he had almost made up his mind to put the matter to the test, and ask the white man; but just then the drums began to beat, and hurriedly taking farewell of their friend who had so patiently dressed their wounds and given them good counsel, they ran back to the chief’s courtyard.
To the native there is something electrical, moving, exhilarating about the beat of a native drum. Directly he hears it his body begins to twitch and sway to and fro in rhythm to the beat, a smile spreads over his face, weariness is forgotten, dull care is thrown to the winds, and he is soon shuffling round the circle, or has taken his place in the line, clapping his hands, and singing a chorus in admirable time.