'TIS JUSTICE, NOT REVENGE.
"Call it not revenge, my brother; say it is but an act of justice, stern
justice, and I am with you."
"Allah is great, Allah is good," replied the Arab whom his companion had
addressed as brother.
They were both talking in their own language, a language at once so
forcible and flowery, that all attempts to render it into English ends
but in a poverty-stricken paraphrase.
"Yes, Allah is good."
The difference between the two speakers was very remarkable. They were
brothers only by courtesy.
One sat on the edge of a kind of wooden sofa or dais; in front of him
was a small table of Hindoo manufacture, on which there stood a brown
earthenware water chatty, some glasses, and a bottle of sherbet [Note
1]. He was fair in skin, delicate in complexion, with a mild and almost
benevolent aspect. He was unarmed, and though he wore the usual dress
of an Arab gentleman, over all he wore a cloak of green camel's hair,
probably denoting him to be a scion of the great prophet.
The other Arab was tall, stately, swarthy, nay, but almost black. He
was armed _cap-a-pie_, and ever as he spoke he strode rapidly up and
down the floor of the room. A large apartment it was, in an upper room
of a great square flat-roofed house in Brava, a village or town close by
the sea, and some distance north of the line.
The room had no signs of luxury or even comfort about it, and no more
furniture than a gaol. The walls were of clay, and unadorned except by
creeping lizards; the one little window looked out towards the ocean,
and a long reef of rocks that lay like a gigantic breakwater--from north
to south--about a mile out.
There were a few clouds in the sky that looked like gigantic ostrich
feathers; now and then these would flit across the sun, casting patches
of green shade on the otherwise blue sea.
That a breeze was blowing, or had been blowing far away out, and far
away eastwards, was evident enough, even on the beach at Brava, for here
the breakers were as tall as trees, they came curling onwards with the
fleetness of desert horses, with the strength of a thousand cataracts,
then broke on the sands with a noise like thunder, retreating again in a
chaos of brown froth, with a hurtling, sucking sound, as if they would
fain draw the very town itself into their grasp.
On the beach itself "the boys" were at play.
What was their play? What was their game? Was it football, tip-cat, or
modest marbles? Not quite.
Just behold them in imagination, as I have done in reality. There
cannot be fewer than a hundred of those boys scattered in groups all
along the shore. Tall, lank, sharp-featured lads of all ages, from
twelve to twenty. Naked they are except for the smallest of
cummerbunds, and the sun is glittering on their well-greased skins.
Black? No, not quite black, rather of the colour of tarnished copper,
their mouths are small and cruel-like, their features sharp and
well-defined, their eyes twinkling with ill-concealed cunning and
malice, and their heads surmounted by great hassocks of hair, in which
clay has been mixed to make it stand well out. They use clay for the
same purpose as ladies of civilisation used the perfumed bandoline.
They are Somali Indians, of the lowest caste, if, indeed, there be any
caste among them.
Here are two engaged in what seems a mortal combat, a deadly duel. They
are standing confronting each other at a distance of some twenty or
thirty paces. Each is armed with a little round shield, made from the
hardened skin of a water buffalo's hump, and studded with big brass
nails. Each holds in his hand a long and deadly-looking spear--not a
broad-bladed one, this latter being only used for hand-to-hand fighting.
The game is that each may hurl his spear at the other when and how he
pleases. The other has either to dodge it or receive its point on the
small strong shield. The quick, rapid, snake-like movements of the
body, and the strange but graceful attitudes assumed, are truly
wonderful to behold. The agility of these Indians, their skill in
parrying and strength in hurling these deadly spears if once witnessed
can never be forgotten.
But wounds are not unfrequent, and on rare occasions a spear may pierce
the body of a friendly antagonist. Blood is staunched by styptics,
which Arab merchants vend them, and if a lad is slain, he does not
obtain the comfort of a coroner's inquest, he is simply buried in the
sand, or even exposed on the beach itself. Then at night wild dogs come
and quarrel and fight over his remains, crabs creep up out of the sea to
the awful feast, and what the dogs and crabs leave is speedily disposed
of by colonies of ants. So the bones are picked clean enough; for a
time they lie bleaching in the sun, till the tide comes up and gradually
buries them in the soft sand.
Look again. Here are some half a dozen younger boys--guiltless of
clothing of any sort; they have been playing in the sea, dashing in
under the breakers with the speed of eels, and coming up far beyond in
smooth but rolling water, disappearing under the surface, and remaining
under for long minutes, bobbing up again, riding in upon the very
curling sharp crests of the breakers themselves, and being floated and
rolled up upon the beach in the smother of surf and spume, laughing,
yelling, and turning head over heels with delight. And now they are
fighting with bones, or pelting each other with them, laughing and
yelling as loudly as ever.
Just one other _tableau_. Two tall youths engaged in a frenzied combat
with Somali swords, terrible-looking long knives, as broad almost as a
spade. The swiftness of stroke and parry or shield is truly marvellous;
but at last, as if by a single accord, the awful knives and eke the
shields are cast aside, and they clutch each other with deadly grip and
fierce: they fight for the throats. See, they are both rolling on the
sand, but one at last is victorious, his talonlike, long bony fingers
have closed upon his adversary's neck. He beats his head against the
sand, till eyeballs and tongue protrude, then he slowly rises, and
retreats a pace or two, still with his eyes on his supposed foe. He
feels backwards with his hand till he touches a sword, he seizes it, and
with a yell springs forward again and stands triumphant over his fallen
fellow, the deadly knife just grazing his neck. Will he strike? No,
for here the combat ends. By and by the vanquished Indian lad will gasp
and sigh, and presently rise, slowly and feebly, and creeping seawards,
refresh himself with a dip beneath the waves.
But to return to the room where the Arabs are.
"They do tell me at Zanzibar," said the dark and soldier Arab, "that in
Europe they place machines beneath the waves, which, if a ship do but
strike, she is blown to death and destruction. Could we not import
these? Money would not be wanting, and you, Mahmoud, have the key to
good foreign society. Oh I fancy the glory of blowing up a British
cruiser--!"
"Talk not thus," was the reply, "nor let us even dream of forsaking the
form in which our fathers fought. With sword and spear, and Allah's
help, they conquered the North, they overran the West, and laid even the
might of Spain in the dust. Let us bide our time. Long has it been
dark, but the dawn will come. A prophet will arise. He will conquer
the world in Allah's name, and every man, woman, or child who adopts not
the true faith will be put to the knife."
"Oh! these will be glorious times, Mahmoud."
"Gloat not over them, Suliemon. It is still with the spirit of revenge
you speak. Think of future wars and executions as but necessities, the
darkness of the inevitable clouds, that will be dispelled by the
glorious rising sun of peace and joy."
"Revenge," muttered Suliemon, through his set teeth. "Curb not my
feelings, Mahmoud. They are just. Think what I have suffered from
British cruisers. Thrice have they run me on shore, twice have they
burned my dhows. To-day I would be wealthy but for them. Curses on
them, I say!" he thundered, half drawing his sword, and sending it
ringing back into the sheath again.
"Stay, brother, stay; I will not sit and hear such exclamations. Allah
is good, but tempt him not, or he may leave you to a fate worse than
that which befel your own brother in Zanzibar."
"Yes, my brother was hanged, hanged at the hands of those infidel dogs.
Oh! Mahmoud, Mahmoud, can you wonder if I sometimes forget myself,
forget your teaching, and loose grip of our religion? My wife, too,
Mahmoud, chased on shore--death by jungle fever. Would you have me
forget that also, Mahmoud?"
"Yes," said Mahmoud, solemnly; "I'd have you forget even that."
Suliemon was standing by the little window, gazing seawards, and as
Mahmoud spoke the last word--
"Look, look!" he shouted, or almost yelled. "It is she--it is my dhow--
deep, deep, in the water--scudding northwards before the breeze; they
are going to beach her ere she sinks--Allah! Allah be praised! I'll
have my wish!"
He girded his sword-belt more tightly as he spoke, and, without even a
word of farewell to Mahmoud, rushed out, and down the Stone stairs.
They ended in a little narrow lane which conducted him to the sands.
At once, on his appearance, all games were stopped. The boys dropped
their bones, the young men sheathed their swords and shouldered their
spears, and next minute he was surrounded. They knew by the face of
their warlike chief he had something of much importance to communicate.
His words were brief and to the point. "Fifty of you I want," he said.
"You, Saleedin," he continued, "will be captain. Be well-armed, bring
irons and surf-boats, and carry with you water, boiled rice, and dates.
Bid your friends farewell, the journey may be a long one.
"Saleedin, keep along on the brow of the hill, but keep the boys out of
sight behind, keep abreast of yonder dhow, and when she is beached come
quickly to me: I shall be on the shore."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Right well had the captain of the double-masted slave dhow--captured by
the _Bunting_--played his game. Right well and right cleverly.
As speedily as possible the dhow had been put in charge of Harry
Milvaine; probably three hours had scarcely elapsed ere she and the
gunboat parted company.
Knowing well that he could rely on his men, Harry retired about eleven
o'clock to the beautiful saloon, and having caused Doomah, the Arab
interpreter and spy who was acting steward, to light the lamps, he threw
himself on a couch and gave way to thought. He did not feel at all
inclined to sleep, and somehow or other, he, to-night, felt under the
shadow of a cloud of melancholy. He could not account for it, he was
seldom otherwise than light and bright and happy.
Being a Highlander, he was naturally somewhat superstitious.
"I would give worlds," he said to himself, "to know what is doing at
home to-night, and to be sure that my dear mother and father are well.
Dear old father, sitting even now, perhaps, smoking his everlasting
meerschaum behind his _Scotsman_. And mother--reading. Oh! would I
could sit beside her for a moment, and tell her how often her boy thinks
of her!"
Then all the events of his young days rose up before his mind--his
governess and Towsie Jock; he laughed, melancholy though he was, when he
thought of that night in the tree--his garden, his summer-house, and
pets, and his dear friend Andrew.
He touched a gong and Doomah appeared.
"Are you sleepy?"
"No, sir, I not sleepy."
"Then come and tell me a story--the story of your life."
"Ah! dat is not mooch, sir. Plenty time I be in action. I have many
wounds from Arab guns."
"Because you're a spy, you know."
"A spy, sir! Not I, sir. No, I am interpreter; I fight in de interests
of de Breetish Queen of England."
"Well, well, have it so."
"Pah! I no care dat mooch for de Arabs. Pah! When dey catch me den
dey kill me. What matter? Some day all die. I am happy, I have one,
two, tree wife, and dey all love Doomah, ebery one mooch more dan de
oder. And when I go home I shall marry Number 4. Ha! ha!"
Doomah kept talking to Harry till all his melancholy had almost if not
quite gone.
It was now about four bells in the middle watch, and Harry was thinking
of sleep, when the curtain was drawn aside and Nicholls the bo's'n
entered. He was Harry's lieutenant.
"Sorry to say, sir, the ship is leaking like a sieve, sir."
"That is bad news, Nicholls," said Harry, starting up.
"It be, sir; but what makes matters worse is that I believe she is
scuttled."
"But there were no signs of leakage before we parted with the
_Bunting_."
"No, indeed, sir, these rascally slaver Arabs know what they are about.
The scuttling was filled up with paper, sure to come out after she had a
few hours of way on her."
"This is serious indeed. Think you--can we keep her afloat till we
reach Zanzibar?"
"If we could pump, yes."
"Well, rig the pump."
"_It is gone, sir. Doubtless_ thrown overboard."
"That is indeed serious, Mr Nicholls."
By daybreak the breeze had freshened considerably, but veered a bit, and
was now dead ahead. The water had gained so much that the slaves had
all to be taken on deck. Bailing was kept up, but seemed to do
comparatively little good.
Harry walked up and down the deck for some time in deep thought. At
last he called Mr Nicholls.
"Put her about," he said, "she'll make less water, then we will try to
run for Magadoxa. We know the Parsee merchant there. And the Somalis
are civil."
"As civil," said Nicholls, "as Somalis can be, when you are not standing
under the lee of British bayonets. Trust a Somali and make friends with
a fiend."
The dhow went round with terrible flapping of her enormous sails, and
much creaking of blocks, her great wings almost dragging the vessel on
her beam ends.
But she went fast enough now. Dhows do fly before the wind, and,
water-logged though this vessel was, her speed was marvellous.
She was far out at sea, however, and soon had to be hauled closer to the
wind in order to gain the shore.
By midday they were about fifteen miles south of Brava, but the wind was
falling, and the dhow now fast filling. They staggered past the ancient
little town, but all hopes of reaching Magadoxa soon fled, and it became
evident to every one that they must soon beach her or sink.
The coast here is most dangerous, owing to the number of sunken rocks,
and to the long stretches of shallow water--water on which the breakers
sometimes run mountains high, as the saying is, but where between the
waves the bottom was everywhere close to the surface. Only the native
surf-boats could get over shoals like these.
Looking for a place on a lee-shore on which to beach a vessel is sad
work, and trying to the nerves; you may pass a fairly good spot,
thinking to come to a better; you may go farther and fare worse.
Harry's, however, was a decided character, and when he came, some ten
miles to the north of Brava, to a spot where the breakers did not seem
to run extremely high--
"Here it must be, Nicholls. Stand by to lower both our boats."
"Starboard, as hard as she'll go."
Up went the tiller, round came her head, and a minute afterwards she
struck with such fearful violence on a coral rock, that her masts, none
of the strongest, went thundering over the side.
"We must try to save the slaves first, Nicholls."
"That will we, sir. Never a white man should cease to work until these
poor abject creatures are safely on shore."
"Bravo! Nicholls. Well spoken, my brave man! I will not forget you
when opportunity offers."
Harry cast his eyes shorewards, the breakers were thundering on the
beach, but no one was visible except a solitary armed Arab.
"Lower away the boats. Gently."
The dhow was already bumping fearfully on the reef and rapidly going to
pieces.
To stand on deck without clinging to bulwarks or rigging was impossible.
The condition of the slaves was now pitiable in the extreme. They were
huddled together, buried together, one might say, in one long cluster,
dying, smothering each other, and drowning in the lee scuppers, for the
sea was breaking clean over the wrecked and dismasted dhow.
Our fellows--bold blue-jackets--took them one by one as they came; they
had almost to lift them down into the boats, so utterly prostrated with
fear were they.
At last a boat got clear away.
Hardly had they left the dhow's side, when high over the moaning and
cries of the poor negroes, high over the sound of roaring tumbling waves
and broken hissing water, arose a shout of triumph, and looking in the
direction from which it proceeded, Harry could see the previously all
but deserted beach swarming with armed and naked Indians.
The boat rode in on the top of a breaker, and was speedily seized and
hauled up high and dry. The men were roped and thrown on their backs,
and the slaves placed in a corner among rocks and guarded by spear-armed
Somalis.
Then surf-boats were launched, and speedily got alongside the dhow.
Thinking nothing about his own safety, Harry was nevertheless glad to
see that the slaves were being taken off, and saved from a watery grave,
whatever their ultimate fate might be.
His men and himself were rowed on shore in the last boat that left that
doomed slave dhow.
In this boat sat that grim dark Arab I have introduced to the reader at
the commencement of this chapter.
For some time he sat sternly regarding Harry. The young Highlander
returned the gaze with interest.
"Would you not like," he said at last, "to know your fate?"
"No. And if it be death, I know how to face it."
"It _is_ death. It _is_ justice, not revenge. I am Suliemon. I was
captain of that dhow. Now you know all and can prepare."
Like his poor men, Harry was bound hands and feet and placed by their
side, fully exposed to the fierce glare of the tropical sun.
How very long the day seemed! But the evening came at last. Then great
fires were lighted on the beach, the flare falling far athwart the
waves, and giving the breaking waters the appearance of newly drawn
blood.
The scene was wild in the extreme; only the pen of a Dickens and the
pencil of a Rembrandt could have done justice to it. The trembling
group of slaves--the waves had sadly thinned their ranks--lying,
squatting, or standing on the sands, the poor white men, with pained,
sad faces, the rude cords cutting into ankles and wrists, the wild
gesticulating armed Indians, and the tall figure in white gliding,
ghostlike, here, there, and everywhere.
One of the boats belonging to the _Bunting_ was now carried to the rear,
and on his back across the thwarts, still bound, Harry was placed. Dry
wood was piled beneath him. Dry wood was piled all round the boat.
He shut his eyes and commended himself to Heaven. Even then he thought
of his poor father and mother far away in their bonnie Highland home,
and he prayed that they might never know the fate that had befallen him.
The Indians formed themselves into a fiendish circle, and danced,
yelling, around him, brandishing sword and spear.
But the dark Arab commanded silence.
"Your hour has come," he said, solemnly.
"This," he added, "_is_ justice, not revenge."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Note 1. What is called sherbet on the Eastern shore of Africa is a
fruit syrup of most delicious flavour and odour. It is mixed with water
and drunk as a beverage. Certainly a great improvement on the _eau
sucre_ of our ancestors.
Book 3--CHAPTER TWO.