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Updated: May 15, 2025
Nothing now remained to do but to get him out of the water without injuring his scales: "hoc opus, hic labor." We mustered strong: there were three Indians from the creek, there was my own Indian Yan, Daddy Quashi, the negro from Mrs. Peterson's, James, Mr. R. Edmonstone's man, whom I was instructing to preserve birds, and lastly myself.
"'Audax omnia perpeti, now that you have got me betwixt yourselves and danger." I then mustered all hands for the last time before the battle. We were four South American savages, two negroes from Africa, a creole from Trinidad, and myself a white man from Yorkshire. In fact, a little tower of Babel group, in dress, no dress, address, and language. Daddy Quashi hung in the rear.
Scarce had he sunk behind the western hills when the goat-suckers sent forth their soft and plaintive cries; some often repeating, "Who are you who, who, who are you?" and others "Willy, willy, willy come go." The Indian and Daddy Quashi often shook their head at this, and said they were bringing talk from Yabahou, who is the Evil Spirit of the Essequibo.
I had come above three hundred miles on purpose to get a cayman uninjured, and not to carry back a mutilated specimen. I rejected their proposition with firmness, and darted a disdainful eye upon the Indians. Daddy Quashi was again beginning to remonstrate, and I chased him on the sandbank for a quarter of a mile.
“The Indians of those wilds have never been subject to the least restraint; and I knew enough of them to be aware, that if I tried to force them against their will, they would take off, and leave me and my presents unheeded, and never return. “Daddy Quashi was for applying to our guns, as usual, considering them our best and safest friends.
I had come above three hundred miles on purpose to get a cayman uninjured, and not to carry back a mutilated specimen. I rejected their proposition with firmness, and darted a disdainful eye upon the Indians. “Daddy Quashi was again beginning to remonstrate, and I chased him on the sand-bank for a quarter of a mile.
I don't mean your Congo Quashi or Borria Bungalee from the back-country blocks of New South Wales our Roman bore no resemblance to them; but say your Morocco kaid, your desert chieftain from Tunis or Algiers. Though for long generations he has lost his old-time civilized attainments, he retains in full his manners, his native dignity, his wild Saharan grace.
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