It was as gay as a regatta. On the
quarter-deck the officers drank champagne, in the captain's cabin
Hughes treated the traders to beer, in the "square" the non-coms. of
the W.A.F.F.'s drank ale. The men who were going away on leave tried
not to look too happy, and those who were going back to the shore
drank deep and tried not to appear too carelessly gay. A billet on
the West Coast is regarded by the man who accepts it as a sort of
sporting proposition, as a game of three innings of nine months
each, during which he matches his health against the Coast. If he
lives he wins; if he dies the Coast wins.
After Calabar, at each port off which we anchored, at Ponny,
Focardos, Lagos, Accra, Cape Coast Castle, and Sekonni, it was
always the same. Always there came over the side the man going
"Home," the man who had fought with the Coast and won. He was as
excited, as jubilant as a prisoner sentenced to death who had
escaped his executioners. And always the heartiest in their
congratulations were the men who were left behind, his brother
officers, or his fellow traders, the men of the Sun Hat Brigade, in
their unofficial uniforms, in shirtwaists, broad belts from which
dangled keys and a whistle, beautifully polished tan boots, and with
a wand-like whip or stick of elephant hide. They swarmed the decks
and overwhelmed the escaping refugee with good wishes. He had
cheated their common enemy. By merely keeping alive he had achieved
a glorious victory.
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