It was a night of inky darkness. All day it had been squally, with a
more or less steady breeze blowing between each squall, and the sea had
been greatly troubled; but now the wind had nearly fallen, the waves
were crestless, foamless, but still they tossed and tumbled about so
that the motion on board Her Majesty's gunboat the _Bunting_ was
anything but an agreeable one. There could be but little danger,
however, for she was well off the land, pretty far out, indeed, in the
Indian Ocean.
Every now and then there was the growling of distant thunder; every now
and then a bright flash of lurid lightning. But between these flashes
was a darkness that could be felt, and never a star was visible. Nor
could there be, for at sunset the clouds seemed a good mile thick.
The _Bunting_ had been in chase most of the afternoon, but nightfall put
an end to it.
It was in the days--not so long ago--when Said Maja reigned Sultan of
Zanzibar, and all the coast line from near Delagoa Bay in the south to
beyond Bareda in the north was more or less his sea-board. It was in
the days when the slave trade in this strange wild city of the coast was
flourishing in all its glory, the Sultan having liberty from our
government to take slaves from any one portion of his dominions to
another. Hundreds of dhows, nay, but thousands, then covered that
portion of the Indian Ocean which laves the forest shores of Eastern
Africa. They were either laden with slaves, or returning empty to fetch
another cargo.
Our cruisers boarded all they met, but it was but seldom one fell into
our hands as a prize, for these cruel and reckless dealers in human
flesh found no difficulty in obtaining a permit from the Sultan's
ministers to carry on their inhuman traffic. A bribe was all that was
necessary, and the words, "Household slaves of H.M. the Sultan," in the
certificate, were all that was necessary to set British law and British
cruisers at defiance.
These dhows were and are still manned and officered by Arabs--gentlemen
Arabs they term themselves. Many of these men are exceedingly handsome.
I have often admired them in the slave market, both the old and the
young. Let me try to describe them:
Here, then, is a young gentleman Arab, probably about twenty-five years
of age.
He wears a kind of gilded night-dress of snow-white linen, which reaches
some distance below the knee; around the waist of this is a gilded and
jewelled sword-belt, supporting a splendid sword, and probably jewelled
pistols. Over this linen garment may be a little jacket of crimson with
gold braid, worn loose, and hardly visible, because over all is an
immense flowing toga of camel's hair of some dark colour. This is also
worn open.
On the head is a gigantic turban, gilded or even jewelled, and the naked
feet are placed in beautiful sandals.
He is very tall, lithe, wiry, and stately, and his face is goodly to
behold, his nose being well chiselled, and mouth not large.
His colour is usually white or brown, though sometimes black, and dark
hair in beautiful ringlets, escaping from under the turban, flows down
nearly to the waist.
In his hand he bears a tall spear, on which he leans or touches the
ground withal when walking, as a Highland mountaineer does with his long
crook.
The carriage and walk of this Arab is grace itself, and gives the
individual a noble and majestic appearance, which it is difficult to
describe.
Except the Scottish costume, I know of no dress half so picturesque as
that of the gentleman Arab and slave-owner.
But here is an old gentleman. Is he bent and decrepit? Nay, but sturdy
and stately as his son, he walks with the same bold grace, is dressed in
the same fashion, keeps quite as firm a hold of his spear, and could
draw his powerful sword and wield it with equal if not greater skill and
agility.
But his long beard and moustache are as white as the paper on which I am
writing. His brow is wrinkled, and the eyes that glint and glare from
beneath the bushy eye-brows are as quick and fierce as those of a golden
eagle.
Those Arabs hate the English with a deadly hatred. Even the sight of a
blue-jacket makes them scowl. I have passed--more than once--a doorway
in Zanzibar, in which one of these men stood, and I have seen him gnash
his teeth at the sight of my uniform, and finger his sword or knife,
nervously, restlessly, as if he hardly could keep from plucking it out
and plunging it into my heart.
It was in pursuit of one of the dhows manned by such gentleman Arabs
that the _Bunting_ had been all the previous afternoon.
Had the wind fallen earlier, this dhow would soon have been a prize; but
as it did not, she had shown them a clean pair of heels, and might now
be anywhere.
That she was a slaver without papers there was not a doubt, and well
laden too, for she was deep in the water.
I am going to make a terrible statement, but it is a true one, and if it
only has the effect of causing even one of my readers to hate slavery
half as much as I do, it will not be made in vain.
Just then, as American traders in crossing the Atlantic, when a
dangerous gale comes on, lighten the ship by throwing the cattle
overboard, so, at times, do these gentleman Arabs lighten their dhows
when chased.
It is a terrible sight to see poor oxen hoisted up in straps with block
and tackle and whirled into the storm-lashed ocean. O God, how
mournfully they moan, how they seem to plead for mercy! That moan once
heard can never, never be forgotten.
The loading of a slave-ship is a terrible sight, but ah! the ruthless
cruelty of lightening a dhow of slaves. They are got up one by one or
two by two. Children, poor young girls and boys, are pitched screaming
into the sea, probably to be devoured by sharks next moment. And sharks
speedily come to a feast of blood of this kind.
But whether men or women--if they struggle, and sometimes whether they
struggle or not--they are ruthlessly slain on the deck before being
thrown overboard. The knife across the neck is used for this terrible
butchery. I have been told by eye-witnesses, themselves prisoners, and
expecting every minute that their turn would come, that the victims are
handed on deck to those who do the work, and that these latter think
less about it than a farm servant does of killing a fowl, sometimes
laughing and joking with their companions the while; and if telling a
story of any kind, they do not even permit the murder they are
committing from interrupting their discourse for a single moment.
It is far more unpleasant for me to write these lines than it can
possibly be for any one to read them.
"I think," said Mr Dewar, the navigating sub-lieutenant, as he entered
the captain's cabin after a preliminary service tap at the door--"I
think I've done all for the best, and done right, sir."
"Well?" replied Captain Wayland--captain by courtesy, remember, for he
really was but a first lieutenant by rank, though in command of the bold
and saucy _Bunting_. He was seated now in his beautiful little saloon,
which was situated right aft, right abaft the gun-room or ward-room--the
_Bunting_ had, of course, only one living deck, under that being the
holds, and above it the main or upper deck, with no other covering
except the sky, and now and then a sun awning. This last was not only a
luxury but a positive necessity in these seas, where the sun blisters
the paint, causes the pitch in the seams to bubble and boil, and takes
the skin as effectually off one's face as if a red-hot iron were passed
over it.
I have called Captain Wayland's quarters a beautiful little saloon. So
it was, but do not imagine, dear reader, that the Lords Commissioners of
the Admiralty had anything to do with the decorating of it. No, they
supplied a table, cushioned lockers, and a few chairs, also cushioned,
but so hot and clumsy that sitting on one was like sitting on a large
linseed-meal poultice.
Captain Wayland returned them to the dockyard, and bought himself others
that could boast of elegance and comfort; he re-painted his saloon, too,
and hung a few tasteful pictures in it and no end of curtains, to say
nothing of a great punkah over the table, which was waving back and fore
now, the propelling power being a little curly-headed nigger-boy who
squatted in a far-off corner, string in hand.
"Well, sir," replied Mr Dewar, in answer to the captain's single word
of inquiry, "I've douced every glim."
"In mercy's name," cried the captain, "do speak English, Mr Dewar!"
"Well, sir, pardon me, I quite forgot myself, but really we've got into
a slangy habit in the ward-room; the only one who does speak decent
English is young Milvaine, and he is a Highland Scotchman."
"Sit down," said the captain, "and have a glass of claret. You'll find
it good."
"Raggy Muffin!" he continued, turning half round in his easy chair.
The nigger-boy let go the punkah string and sprang to his feet.
"Raggy Muffin stand befoh you, sah!" he said, bowing his towsie head.
"Right, Raggy. Now bring a bottle of claret."
"Right you are, sah. I fetchee he plenty quick."
"And I'll bring myself to an anchor," said Mr Dewar, "and have a glass
of grog with pleasure."
Respect of person was not the crowning virtue of this warlike youth.
The captain fidgeted uneasily.
"Well, sir, I've douced--I mean I've put out all lights. I have men in
the chains--not that we're likely to fall in with shoal water here, you
know--"
"Oh, bother, you're right to be safe. The _Wasp_ ran aground in about
this same place. Well, who's watch is it?"
"Young Milvaine's."
"Right, we're safe."
Mr Dewar looked at Captain Wayland for a few moments.
"You believe in that youngster, sir?" he asked.
"I do. He's faithful, bold, or rather brave--"
"Yes, sir, he's as plucky as a bantam. He thrashed big Crawford the
first day he came on board. Crawford has been good-natured ever since.
He showed fine fighting form when we brushed against those Arabs above
'Mbasa, and he jumped overboard, you know, and saved Raggy's life off
the Quillimane river."
"Raggy die some day for Massa Milvaine," put in the nigger-boy.
"Hush, Raggy, when your betters are talking."
"Raggy die all same, though," the boy persisted.
"The young scamp will have the last word. Yes, Mr Dewar, young
Milvaine ought to have a medal for that; but, poor fellow, he won't,
though I'm told there were sharks about by the dozen."
"I saw it all," said young Dewar. "It was my cap that fell off, just
before we crossed the bar. Raggy made a plunge for it, and over he
went; Milvaine threw off his coat, and over he went. The coolness of
the beggar, too, amused me."
"Don't say `beggar.'"
"Well, `_fellow_.' There was a basking shark in the offing, with its
fin above the water, and a bird perching on it like a starling on the
back of a sheep. The cap--the very one I wear now, sir--was between
this brute and Milvaine, but no sooner had he got Raggy--
cockerty-koosie, as he called it--on his shoulder, than he swam away out
and seized the cap with his teeth, then handed it to Raggy. And the
young monkey put it on, too. We picked him up just in time, for the
sharks looked hungry, and angry as well."
Mr Dewar helped himself to another half-tumbler full of claret.
"There is a wine-glass at your elbow," said the captain, with a mild
kind of a smile.
"Bother the wine-glass!" replied the middy. "Pardon me, sir, but I'd
have to fill it so often. My dear Captain Wayland, there's no more pith
and fooshion in this stuff than there is in sour buttermilk."
The captain laughed outright. Mr Dewar was an officer of a very old
and obsolete type.
"Why, my dear sir, that is my very best claret. Claret Lagrange, Mr
Dewar; I paid seventy-five shillings a dozen for it."
"Raggy," he added; "bring the rum, Raggy."
"Try a drop of that, then."
"Ah! that indeed, captain," exclaimed Mr Dewar, with beaming eyes.
"That's a drop o' real ship's."
He was moderate, though, but he smacked his lips. "I feel in famous
form now," he said. "I hope we'll come up with that rascally dhow
before long. With my good sword now, Captain Wayland, and a brace of
colts, I think--"
At this moment Midshipman Milvaine--our Harry--entered, cap in hand.
He has greatly improved since we last saw him, almost a giant, with a
bright and fearless eye and a most handsome face and agile figure. His
shoulders are square and broad. He is very pliant in the waist; indeed,
the body above the hips seems to move independent of hips or legs.
Harry had now been four years in the service, and was but little over
sixteen years of age.
"Anything occurred, Mr Milvaine?"
"Yes, sir, something is occurring, something terrible, murder or mutiny.
The night is now very still, and the stars are out I can't see
anything, but from away over yonder, two or three points off the port
bow, there is fearful screaming, and I can even hear splashing in the
water."
Captain Wayland sprang up, so did young Dewar.
"The scoundrels!" cried the former. "It is the dhow. They are
lightening ship to get away from us with the morning breeze."
"Mr Milvaine," he added, hurriedly, "we'll go to quarters. Do not
sound the bugle.--Let all be done quietly. Keep her, Mr Milvaine,
straight for the sounds you hear, and tell the engineers to go ahead at
full speed."
"The moon will rise in half an hour," said Harry.
"Thank Heaven for that," was the captain's reply.
For the boats of a small ship like the _Bunting_ to board a heavily
armed fighting dhow like the one they had been giving chase to, is no
mean exploit even by day: by night such an adventure requires both tact
and skill and determination as well.
But the thing has been done before, and it was going to be tried again
now.
The captain himself went on deck.
There was already a faint glimmer of light from the rising moon on the
south-eastern sky.
But the sea was all as silent as the grave; there was the rattling of
the revolving screw and the noise of the rushing, bubbling, lapping
waves as the vessel cleaved her way through them. Further than this,
for the space of many minutes, sound there was none.
"In what direction did you say you heard the cries?" asked Captain
Wayland of young Harry Milvaine.
"We are steering straight for it now, sir, and--"
Suddenly he was interrupted. From a point still a little on the port
bow, and apparently a mile distant, came a series of screams, so
mournful, so pleading, so pitiful, as almost to freeze one's blood.
"Ah-h! Oh-h-h! Oh! Oh! Oo-oo-ok!"
The last cry was wildly despairing, and cut suddenly short, as I have
tried to describe, by the letters "ok."
A moment or two afterwards there came across the water the sound of a
plash, and next minute there was a repetition of the dreadful yells and
cries.
The captain took two or three hasty turns up and down the deck. He was
a very humane and kindly-hearted officer.
"I hardly know what to do for the best," he said.
"Suppose, sir," replied Mr Dewar, whom he seemed to be addressing, "we
fire a gun to let her know we are near?"
"No," replied the captain; "there is still wind enough, and time enough,
for her to escape in the dark. We'll keep on yet a short time. Stand
by to lower the boats. They are already armed?"
"Yes, sir."
"Escape in the dark!" muttered the captain to himself through his set
teeth. "Dark indeed will be the work as soon as our lads get on board
of this fiend's ship."
Book 2--CHAPTER FOUR.