“Medicine chest gone, Ma.”
Now, the medicine chest was my soldier brother's, the pride of my heart. I had proposed to bring it back to him and show him that the only time it had been used in this unhealthy climate was when the carrier had inadvertantly got cascara for his pneumonia. Well, it was gone, and there was nothing more to be said. Its pristine beauty had been lost in the rains in Togo. Grant departed, but presently he was on the bridge again.
“Pots be all bruck, Ma.”
“Oh, Grant!” I had got them so far only to lose them in the end. Grant was like one of Job's comforters. He seemed to take a huge delight in announcing to me fresh disasters. My things were all done up small for carrying on men's heads, and the sea had played havoc with them. The bucket was gone; the kettle, an old and tried servant, was gone; the water-bottle was gone, so was the lantern; the chop box had been burst open, and the plates and cups smashed; while the knives and forks had been washed overboard, and the majority of my boots, for some reason or other, had followed. After Grant had made about his tenth journey, announcing fresh disasters, I said:
“Oh, never mind, Grant. We must make the best of it; I'm rather surprised we are not gone ourselves,” and with a grin he saw to the handing of the remains of my goods into the boat, and getting them on board the steamer.
That steamer was tiny. I looked at the cabin assigned me, and determined if I had to sit up all night I would not occupy it, and then I had my precious black box brought on deck, and proceeded to count the damage. It was locked and it was supposed to be air-tight and water-tight. I can't say about the air-tight, but water-tight it certainly was not, for every single thing in that box was soaked through and through. I took them out one by one; then, as no one said me nay, I tied them on to the taffrail, and let my garments flutter out in the breeze and the sunshine. There were four French women on board, bound from the French Congo to Konakri, and they took great interest and helped me with suggestions and advice, but I must say I was glad that I was bound for Sekondi, where my kind friend the nursing Sister was keeping fresh garments for me. As for my poor little typewriter, it was so drenched with water that, though I stood it out in the sun, I foresaw its career in West Africa was over.
As the sun was setting, came on board the captain of the bar steamer to bid me God-speed. We had never met till the day before, but that morning we had faced death together, and it made a bond.
“Go back to-night?” said he; “not if I know it. Not for a week, if that surf doesn't go down. I couldn't face it.”
I wanted him to stay and dine, because I knew he had nothing, but he told me how good the German had been, and said he did not like leaving his own ship after dark; so we said “good-bye” with, I hope, mutual respect, and, after dinner, I began to consider how I should spend the night. I knew my own bedding must be rather wet, but I knew, also, the camp-bed would be all right, and I told Grant to bring it up on deck and make it up with bedding from the Frenchman's bunk.
“They no give you cabin, Ma,” said he, surprised.