"The fat'll do the job," Mr Dewar, "without poor Raggy."
So it does, and just as the sun is dropping like a red-hot cannon-ball
into the sea, and turning the waves to blood, the first shot goes
roaring through the rigging of that doomed dhow.
Another and another follow, still she cracks on. Then a shell or two
are fired and burst right over her.
The Arabs cannot stand that. They lower sails at once.
But behold! almost at the same moment a boat leaves the dhow, and
impelled by sturdy arms goes bounding away shoreward.
"Ah!" says Captain Wayland, "the Arabs won't stop to reckon with us, and
they will soon be where we can't follow them."
"Never mind," replies Mr Dewar, laughing, "we'll have the prize."
"And, sir," he adds, "it is all owing to a bit of fat."
"All through what, Mr Dewar?"
"A bit of fat, sir. I'll tell you again, and beg forgiveness in due
form."
The saloon of this huge dhow was furnished with truly oriental
magnificence.
Lamps, mirrors, carpets, curtains, ottomans, and bijouterie, all in
taste, all luxurious in the extreme.
The hold was filled to the hatches with moaning, pining slaves.
Hardly was there enough rice on board her to keep them alive for even a
three weeks' voyage, and scarcely water enough to keep them out of agony
for a week.
But all this was changed now. The poor creatures were had up in
batches, their irons were knocked off, they were washed and fed.
Finally, everything was made clean and comfortable for them below, and
when all was done that could be done, a prize crew was put on board,
under the command of Harry Milvaine, and the dhow and the _Bunting_
parted company with three ringing cheers three times repeated.
The gunboat steamed away north and by east, while the dhow spread her
great wings to the breeze and went tacking away for Zanzibar.
Just two months after this, the _Bunting_ was nearing Symon's Town, all
having gone as merrily with her, since leaving Calcutta, as marriage
bells. Dr Scott and Dewar were chaffing each other, as they very
frequently did.
The doctor had a long string floating overboard from the stern, and
every now and then he caught and hauled on board a Cape pigeon, which he
had managed by skilful manoeuvring to entangle with his tackle.
He had them running about the deck to the number of twenty or more.
"What are you going to do with all these birds?" asked Dewar. "You
silly old Sawbones!"
"I'm merely catching them for sport, you mouldy old logarithm," replied
Scott. "I'll let them off again presently, that will be more sport."
"Strange, isn't it, my dear Dr Fungus," said Dewar, "that they can't
fly away after they once alight on deck?"
"Not at all," returned the surgeon, "not at all strange, Mr
Five-knots-an-hour; the explanation is simple. They are attacked by
_mal de mer_--seasickness, you know--"
"Yes, yes, I know that much French, Mr Sawbones."
"Well, old Binnacle-lamp, I'm glad you do know something. The birds get
seasick and can't fly, and don't care much what becomes of themselves."
"Humph!" said Mr Dewar, walking away laughing. "Very little is fun to
fools--beg pardon, doctor, I mean to foolosophers."
In another twenty-four hours the saucy little _Bunting_ was lying safely
at anchor in Symon's Bay. And what a lovely place is this same bay with
its surrounding scenery! Oh! the beauty, the summer beauty, the spring
and autumn beauty of those grand old hills that mirror their purple
heath-clad heads in the placid waters of that enchanting bay! How
gorgeous the flowers that blaze on its trees, how golden the sands on
which the waves break in streaks of snowy foam! Its very rocks are
tinted, and bronzed with the sunshine of ages, even its most barren
spots, where, high up among the mountains, the soil peeps through, are
rich in brooms and lichen-grey, for Time himself has been the artist
here.
Captain Wayland had half, or nearly wholly expected to find Midshipman
Milvaine here waiting for him. He was quite uneasy when a steamer
straight from Zanzibar and Seychelles came in, and reported that no
slave dhow with a prize crew had been seen at the former town.
The _Bunting_ lay at Symon's Bay a fortnight, and during that time,
first a French man-o'-war, and next an English trading steamer arrived
from Zanzibar straight away. But still no tidings of the missing dhow.
The _Bunting_ then bore up for home, arriving in good time in Plymouth
Sound, duly reported herself, and in less than a week was paid off.
Captain Wayland took the pains to go all the way to the Highlands of
Scotland to report correctly the story of the dhow.
He was most hospitably received, and did not get away for nearly three
weeks.
Both Harry's parents were plunged into grief at the captain's tidings,
but his reason for coming north was to make the best of matters that he
could, and he left them at last resigned and hopeful, Harry's mother
especially assuring him that she felt certain her son would turn up
again safely and soon.
But alas! and alas! weeks flew by, and months passed into a year, and a
year into long years, but no tidings ever were received of that lost
dhow and her unhappy crew.
Then hope died out of even the mother's heart, and she even began to
look old, and grow grey under the pressure of her woeful grief.
Book 3--CHAPTER ONE.