The gentlemen who stay at home at ease may think damp
sheets dangerous, but Malvern had long ago taught me the perfect
safety of the wettest bivouac, provided that the body remains
warm. At Fernando Po, as at Zanzibar, a drunken sailor after a
night in the gutter will catch fever, and will probably die. But
he has exposed himself to the inevitable chill after midnight, he
is unacclimatized, and both places are exceptionally deadly--to
say nothing of the liquor. The experienced African traveller
awaking with a chilly skin, swallows a tumbler of cold water, and
rolls himself in a blanket till he perspires; there is only one
alternative.
Next day I arose at 4 A.M., somewhat cramped and stiff, but with
nothing that would not yield to half a handful of quinine, a cup
of coffee well "laced," a pipe, and a roaring fire. Some country
people presently came up, and rated us for sleeping in the bush;
we retorted in kind, telling them that they should have been more
wide-awake. Whilst the boat was being baled, I walked to the
shore, and prospected our day's work. The forest showed a novel
feature: flocks of cottony mist-clouds curling amongst the trees,
like opals scattered upon a bed of emeralds; a purple haze banked
up the western horizon, whilst milk-white foam drew a delicate
line between the deep yellow sand and the still deeper blue.
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