The wind was small and the sea smooth, and on deck the white men slept in the moonshine. Then every man adored his fetish, and called upon his god that he believed in, to help. I gave the sign, which was a shout of war, such as we raised when we rushed upon a sleeping village of our enemies to capture slaves. Then we all rushed at the hatchway—we tossed aside the grating of heavy wood and iron, as though it had been of the wattled hurdles which we planted round our fields. We were free. We shouted—we climbed—we leaped—we swarmed out in the moonshine. The white man who stood armed by the hatchway had only time to fire his carabine among us. Then a score of sticks, and iron chains, with handcuffs swung to them, split asunder his head. In a moment he was overboard and sunk in the sea. The white men were conquered. Some were asleep in hammocks, some on the deck. With great shouts and screams we rushed at them. We tore them from their beds. We dashed them on the deck. We slashed them with the knives we found. We hove them overboard. And the sharks which followed us from Africa, and were fat with the flesh of our fellows, swallowed the white men also. Therefore we were the masters of the ship, and it seemed a good slave; for when all the white men were dead and gone, it sailed on, and the small wind blew, and the sea was smooth, just as before. I looked then for the king, but he was dead. The one shot which the white man fired struck him—the ball drove the fetish of feathers, which was upon his breast, into his heart. He was dead, and the sharks had him also.