June 24th, 1776
This day a dispute broke out among our Regiment.
It was occasioned by the cult of dirt-eaters, which despairing souls grow in number upon the far shore of the island, smeared with loam, destitute of movement and lost to all sensation, encrusted with dirt, begrimed with misery.
During supper-time, we heard shouting from another Company — curses the most furious — and, wondering at this outburst, we abandoned our plates and rushed to witness the argument.
It ran thus: Speaking of the dirt-eaters, a soldier of Coromantee blood had said this slow self-murder was nothing but fool Ibo weakness, adding that he ain’t never met an Ibo man, but they cried theyselves to sleep; and soon as there’s any hardship, they stringing up they noose.
At this, those of Ibo blood were greatly affronted, and rose to protest; the Coromantees jesting further; one of them recalling when he was new off the ship, unseasoned, and all the boys was took for to be branded, that the first Ibo boy having the scalding brand pressed into his shoulder screamed in pain; and all the other Ibo boys, in the transports of sympathy, began to wail, to moan, as if had they themselves been seared — like some parcel of girls, so affrightened — oh! Whereas, said he, the Coromantees danced up to the buckra-men and offered their shoulders; they laughed when burned —“Now, they was men, not Ibo girls.”
And at that word, the men of Ibo blood, pressed to defend their honor, fell upon the Coromantees, and began to strike them; an Efik man still recounting how his father had told him of conveying those blubbering Ibos for sale at Old Calabar; and hearing this, Charles, who cannot abide an Efik, plunged into the fracas and began in earnest to try to crush the life out of this vaunter’s lungs. The combatants had hard work of it to avoid the embers of their small fire, engaged in their melee at its side — plates rattled beneath their heels and there were dim cries of pain. The scene was pitiable — the violence earnest, but with all the lassitude of the starving, peered down upon by triumphant rebels, Olympian in the dusk.
Into this skirmish stepped Isaac the Joiner, crying, “Dear brethren — peace — dear brethren — for the sake of Christ our Savior —” until the rest of us, roused from the stupor attendant upon shock, slipped in to divide again the Gold Coast and the Ibo uplands — heaving men back by their arms — glimpsing, among us all, not simply fists, but knives.
At this interesting juncture, a white lieutenant, hearing the cries, approached shouting; at which the scuffle evaporated entire, and left only men standing ashamed around the ruins of a fire; returning to their own suppers; facing away into the night.
Above us, from Cricket Hill, came the sound of applause.