Fortunately there was a splendid fellow on board, Webster, the corporal
of marines, who knew how to get water on shore. He, the Persian
interpreter (a stolid, aristocratic individual in spotless white clothes
and a black fez), and myself went ashore in the dinghy and made
ourselves extremely unpopular, disturbing an Arab contractor and waking
half the village (if you could call it a village). But we got our water
alongside in a couple of hours and on board half an hour later. Oh, my
head was hot! On shore the sun seemed to strike right through my
helmet, glaring at me from the dusty, sandy ground and hitting me from
every white mud wall. I had never been so hot in my life.
At last everything was ready. We hove up our rusty cable and slipped
out through the cluster of dhows anchored near us. The sun was low, and
as I set my course from a tall signal-mast at one corner of the
telegraph buildings, the white walls were tinged a rosy red. At the
foot of the flagstaff I thought I saw the figures of two women. Risking
another snub from the little lady with the yellow hair and grey eyes, I
waved my helmet. Sure enough, two white handkerchiefs fluttered for a
moment. I smiled, pleased that she had forgiven me.
Then the sun sank in a glory of red gold, and off we steamed, whilst I
smoked my pipe and watched the lonely telegraph buildings and the
sand-hills behind them gradually sink below the horizon.
I was so happy that I would not have changed places with all the kings
of England from William I--1066--that I could remember.
For the first few hours, as we jogged along, a half-moon gave plenty of
light; but it set by midnight, and the night was dark, with hardly a
breath of wind.
Several times dhows glided by noiselessly and mysteriously, with a
phosphorescent glow along their water-lines, and each time one passed I
felt as excited as a child. I was much too excited to sleep; kept Mr.
Scarlett's watch, and gradually edged to the eastward so as to be about
halfway between those two creeks, and five miles or so off the land, at
sunrise.
That first sunrise--the flood of marvellously changing shades of
delicate colours, spreading upwards from behind the Persian
mountains--was magical. Even though my thoughts were full of other
things, I almost held my breath as I watched it. Away inshore, to the
south-east, was the little headland of Kuh-i-Mubarak, with a
peculiar-shaped rock (marked on the chart) on its top; and to the
north-east was Sheikh Hill and the cliffs which the political agent had
sketched for me. Between them the shore and the low sand-hills were, as
yet, invisible, and not a sail was in sight.
"Well, here we are, Mr. Scarlett," I said with satisfaction, as he came
to relieve me after a sound night's sleep. "We're just where I wanted
to be. We'll go and have a look at that creek leading to Bungi."
In half an hour we had shoved the _Bunder Abbas_ within a few hundred
yards of the foot of Sheikh Hill, with its old dilapidated fort perched
on top, and some white-robed figures squatting on the rocks outside it.
I went right in, almost under the high cliffs on the opposite side of
the little bay, until the mouth of the creek came in view, with a number
of native boats drawn up on the sand, and, far inland, the tops of a few
palm trees.
Mr. Scarlett, looking nervous and anxious, spotted a dirty-looking chap
looking down at us from the tops of those cliffs. "He has a rifle," I
said, handing him my glasses, and had hardly spoken before a spurt of
water jumped up under our bows with a "flop", and a bullet, smacking
against the anchor, squealed past us. I saw Mr. Scarlett's face turn
grey, and his hand shook as he hurriedly gave back the glasses.
"He's an Afghan," he said; "an Arab would not fire without some excuse.
We'd better get out of it, sir."
The man had flung himself down among the rocks at the top of those
cliffs, almost over our heads. We could not have hit him with rifle,
Maxim, or six-pounder; so, as I had seen all that was to be seen, I
turned the _Bunder Abbas_ round and went to sea again. The Afghan, or
whoever he was, fired once or twice after us, but he was a wretchedly
bad shot.
"Queer beggars, them Afghans," Mr. Scarlett said, recovering his
equanimity when we were out of rifle range. "It don't matter where they
are, but they'll take a pot-shot at a white man, even if they know
they'll be scuppered the very next moment. You may bet your life, sir,
that as there are some of them hanging round here, here they mean to
land them rifles."
There was not a breath of wind to be felt, and no dhow could possibly
run in for the next few hours, so I sauntered down to look at the creek
near Kuh-i-Mubarak, eleven miles to the south. Here the water was very
deep right up to the shore, and in the creek. I steamed up it for a mile
and a half, winding between bare sand-hills, which concealed any view
behind them, until it widened suddenly into a great basin or "khor" that
shoaled rapidly.
"There won't be any water for us," Mr. Scarlett said, fidgeting.
Bother the water! I wanted to see all I could, so pushed on. I had not
seen a single living thing or sign of habitation, so crept along,
sounding as I went, until the sand-hills opened out and showed a wide
plain dotted with palm trees, a few huts close to the water, and many
boats drawn up in front of them.
"Look!" I shouted. "Look! Look at all those things under the
trees--camels, as sure as ninepence!" Through my telescope I could see
fifty or sixty yellowish-brown things kneeling, like lumps of mud, under
the shade of those palms, moving their long necks, and some human beings
were walking about among them. At any rate I had seen one lot of
camels. I was quite satisfied, backed the _Bunder Abbas_ out until
there was room to turn her round, and put to sea.
All the rest of that day, the next night, and for three more days and
nights we patrolled up and down from one creek to another, and not a
sign of dhow did we see.
Those days were busy enough. Mr. Scarlett and I between us had "shaken
up" the crew with a vengeance. Moore wished he'd never been born. I had
the whole crew "fallen in" and said a few words to them, letting them
know that I was going to stand no nonsense, and that until the _Bunder
Abbas_ was clean above and below, inside and out, bright work polished
and paintwork clean, nobody would have any afternoon sleep whatever.
The trouble of it all was that there were so few of them that either
they were on watch or standing off.
The whole crew consisted of only ten white men, besides myself and the
gunner: Moore, the petty officer; Dobson, a quiet, determined-looking
leading seaman; four able seamen--Andrews, Jackson, Wiggins, and
Griffiths; a signalman named Hartley--the laziest man on board; and
three marines--Webster, the corporal, and Jones and Gamble, privates.
Picked men they were, I knew, though they had been allowed to get "out
of hand". Webster, the corporal, was, as far as I could judge, the best
man among them. He did the duties of ship's corporal, steward,
sick-berth steward, and writer--and did them well too.
In addition to these there was Jaffa, the Persian interpreter, silent
and dignified, always spotlessly clean--a good-looking fellow if he had
not had a cataract in one eye. Jaffa was far and away ahead of all the
other natives. He gave you the impression that he was the descendant of
Persian emperors, brooding over the deserted grandeur and humbled state
of his country at the present time. In fact, I treated him with the
greatest respect from the very first day.
There were three lascar drivers and nine lascar firemen to look after
the boilers and engine, their own lascar "bundari" or cook, another cook
of some unknown nationality, and his boy, to cook for the rest of the
crew. These two were the most depressed, dirty-looking objects I had
ever seen. One or the other, generally both, could be seen at any hour
of the day--or night, I believe--crouched on the deck, outside the
little galley, swishing a dirty cloth round the middle of a saucepan or
dish, gazing dejectedly across the sea, and looking as if they longed to
jump into it and finish all their worries. Last but one was a
snuff-coloured Goanese carpenter; and, last of all, Sinamuran, our Tamil
boy from Trincomalee, who "did" for Mr. Scarlett and myself, and soon
began to look quite respectable. We never had to call "Percy" a second
time, day or night, before he had glided, silent as a ghost, to our
elbows, looking with solemn black eyes to see what was wanted.
This was the strangely-assorted crew collected in the little _Bunder
Abbas_--thirty in all, and speaking half a dozen languages. The white
crew lived aft and the coloured men for'ard.
The bluejackets' uniform consisted of white, mushroom-shaped helmets or
topees, white-coloured singlets, and duck "shorts". At night they wore
their ordinary ship's caps, flannel jumpers, and duck trousers. I don't
believe there was a yard of blue serge in the launch; so the
"bluejackets" were not anything like the bluejackets one sees in
England. The armament of the _Bunder Abbas_ consisted of that
six-pounder in the bows, the two Maxims in the stern, ten rifles and
sword-bayonets, ten cutlasses, and twelve revolvers. We had plenty of
ammunition. So now, perhaps, it is possible for anyone to picture us as
we patrolled slowly up and down that coast, keeping well away from shore
in the sweltering daytime and creeping closer during the comparatively
cool nights.
For four days and nights there was scarcely a puff of wind to ruffle the
surface of the sea--certainly not enough to move a dhow; so we saw
nothing. But on the evening of that fourth day a fair breeze sprang up,
only to die down again before midnight. Just before daybreak Mr.
Scarlett woke me. As I jumped to my feet he pointed seawards, and
there, sure enough, even in the indistinct light, was a dhow, about four
miles off, crawling inshore with a fitful breeze behind her.
"That's no proper trader," Mr. Scarlett whispered hoarsely, his voice
shaking a little. "Look what a wretched thing she is! The Arabs never
run arms in a new or big dhow: the risk of capture is too great. See
that signal?"
I looked ashore to where he was pointing. We were abreast Sheikh Hill,
and on it we could see a red light being moved about.
"It's a warning signal," Mr. Scarlett said, "and she hasn't seen it
yet."
"Off we go!" I chuckled, my heart thumping with excitement. "Get the
guns cleared away."
"Aye, aye, sir," Mr. Scarlett answered bravely, but his voice trembled
and his face turned that muddy colour again. He would not catch my eye,
and went down on deck. I bit my lip with vexation. If I could not
depend upon him at a pinch, what was I to do?
Percy brought me a cup of coffee, smiling, and looking at the dhow. I
drank it at a gulp. Extraordinarily thirsty I was, and the air had a
peculiar "dry feeling".
Griffiths happened to be at the wheel. I nodded, and he turned the
launch towards the dhow, whilst I called down the voice-pipe to the
engine-room and ordered more steam.
*CHAPTER IV*
*Adrift in a Dhow*
The crew of that dhow sighted us long before the puffs of black smoke
from our funnel showed that the lascars down in the stokehold were
pitching on more coal. The queer-looking craft turned up into the
breeze, hung there for a moment, as if hesitating what to do, and then
paid off, turning to the south'ard.
Off we went after her, gathering speed--Griffiths at the helm, I
standing by him, and the others down below, under the awnings, round
their guns. I noticed that there was no dew on the awnings or
decks--usually it was very heavy; the air, too, was extraordinarily dry,
and a splash of water which fell on the deck as Percy brought my shaving
water to the cabin dried in no time.
Griffiths was sniffing to wind'ard. "A 'shamel's' coming, sir, that's
what it is--a big one, I fancy; the air's allus like this a 'our or two
before they comes."
A "shamel"! I had read about a shamel--the Sailing Directions for the
station was full of it: a changeable, boisterous gale from the
north-west, coming when least expected, sometimes blowing with terrific
force, and often lasting for five or six days; but I was too excited
just then to worry about it, even when Mr. Scarlett, putting his head up
through the gap in the awning, called out huskily: "Bad weather from the
north-west, I fear, sir."
The sun shot up from behind the Persian mountains, its face blurred and
hazy.
"Aye, it's a shamel all right, afore long!" I heard Griffiths mutter.
Well, if it came, it came; I did not care what happened, so long as I
got alongside that dhow.
In half an hour we were close enough to see that she was of about eighty
tons, high in the poop, low in the bows, and very ill found. She had
her big sail drawing full, and was streaking through the water.
Presently she began to haul it farther and farther aft, still keeping on
her course.
"Ah! the breeze is backing," Griffiths muttered; "that's another sign
we're in for it all right, sir. It's going to be a tidy one too."
We were now about a thousand yards from the dhow, and were rapidly
closing. I ordered Mr. Scarlett to fire a six-pounder shell ahead of
her.
The little cloud of smoke spurted out from beneath the awning, and the
shell burst fifty or sixty yards in front of her bows. She took not the
least notice, except to ease away the big sail again, still keeping on
her course to the south'ard.
"The shamel's coming, sure enough; she's reckoning on that," Griffiths
muttered under his breath. "When it comes, those chaps will carry on
till they lose their mast. They have rifles, or they'd have lowered
their sail. If they're caught, it means six months' 'chokey' for them,
besides losing the dhow, so they're going to have a run for their money.
That's what they're going to do."