"Hurry up, men! it's coming on to blow," I shouted.
Mr. Scarlett's voice, very shaky, called:
"I shouldn't open those hatches, sir. We're a long way to leeward."
Little I cared how hard it blew. Little you would have cared if you had
been in my place, on board my first capture, feeling certain that there
were hundreds of rifles and thousands of cartridges under those hatches.
"Dig out, men, dig out for blazes!" I shouted, and then saw Mr. Scarlett
lean over the side of the launch and be violently sick--with fright, I
presumed--and was madly angry with him.
That line of muddy-grey water was rushing towards us now; Sheikh Hill
was shut out in a blurred haze, and as the lascars were hammering at
those wedges the "shamel" struck us. It was like a wall of solid wind.
With a rush and a roar it swept down upon us, and I should have been
blown overboard if I had not been holding on to a shroud. It struck the
high poop of the dhow, and swung her and the _Bunder Abbas_ round like a
top. Spray whirled in front of the "shamel", and drenched us to the
skin. The big sail began lashing furiously from side to side, but not a
move did the Arab crew make; the little dog had fled back under the
poop, and the nakhoda was laughing in his beard.
Mr. Scarlett shouted for me to cover up the hatch.
Luckily we had not yet opened it.
I yelled to my men to get hold of the sail, to lash it to the yard and
to haul taut the main sheets, the big block of which was banging about
in the most dangerous manner.
Whilst we were doing this another squall struck us. The dhow's bows
paid off before it; the sail partially filled and bore her over until
the lee gunwale was awash, then bore her down against the _Bunder
Abbas_, the yard of the big sail tearing away the after awning and
crumpling the stanchions. The lascars and the Goanese carpenter,
frightened out of their lives, jumped into the _Bunder Abbas_ or were
knocked overboard into her. Jackson fell into the sea between the two.
I expected him to be crushed, but saw them drag him safely into the
launch--waiting their chance. Mr. Scarlett and a couple of "hands" were
lowering the hatches over the engine-room and stokehold; others on board
her were battening down for'ard, as the seas poured over the bows.
It was marvellous what a sea had risen in such a short time. Waves,
striking the side of the dhow, surged up and topped aboard the launch;
she was half-buried in them. The Arabs, crouching nearer together under
the weather gunwale, pulled their cloaks over their heads to protect
themselves, chattering volubly and peering to wind'ard; the nakhoda,
clinging to one of the tiller ropes, chuckled to himself.
The dhow fell off again broadside to the wind, seas began washing right
over her waist, and one by one those balks of timber were hurled
overboard. The launch was to wind'ard, now, banging against her side.
I did not know what to do. I could not bring myself to abandon the
dhow.
Whilst I was trying to make up my mind, the dhow gave a tremendous
lurch, and the strain on the for'ard rope to the launch was too much for
it. It rendered, and before another could be secured the dhow had swung
away from her. Another wave fell aboard her; the _Bunder Abbas_ was
almost hidden in water; the damaged awning stripped and thundered to
leeward, and she heeled over so much that for a moment I thought she
would capsize. Then the stern rope parted and we drifted away from each
other.
I yelled to Mr. Scarlett to come alongside again (my voice hardly
reached my own ears), but a cloud of steam rushed hurriedly up from the
boiler-room, and I knew what that meant--her fires had been put out, and
she was perfectly helpless.
For a moment I wondered whether she could live in that sea. It flashed
across my brain that I'd made a fool of myself and lost her; then a wave
soaked me to the skin and half-smothered me.
By this time we were a quarter of a mile apart, the dhow with her tall
sides and mast drifting to leeward much more rapidly than the _Bunder
Abbas_. As I watched her, wallowing deeply, the after awning tore away
completely, whirling and twisting. It was carried up in the air like a
dry leaf, and was actually borne right over the dhow before it fell into
the sea. I saw the nakhoda still smiling from under his burnous--he
knew perfectly well that neither the _Bunder Abbas_ nor her guns
mattered now--and I realized that Dobson, Wiggins, and myself were alone
with those Arabs in a crazy dhow, with a gale blowing harder every
moment, and no possible means of leaving her. I did not count Jaffa,
the interpreter; it was not his job to fight, and if it came to a scrap
he certainly did not look as if he would be of any use.
"We'll have to take her into Jask, sir," Dobson roared in my ears.
"Right to lee'ard it is, sir. This breeze will take us there in next to
no time."
What a chap! This "breeze"! Call this tearing, roaring fury of a gale
a breeze!
My aunt; so we would! I'd never thought of that. We'd take her into
Jask. Yes, we would! But there were those Arabs to be reckoned with,
and they might have something to say about that. We should have to
master them first and make them help us or the dhow might not weather
the gale. We could do that, Dobson, Wiggins and I; we had our
revolvers, whilst they seemed to be unarmed.
With something definite to do, and with the relief of not having yet
lost my captured rifles, I really minded but little what happened.
Those rifles were mine, and sooner than lose them--I'd go down with
them. Take her into Jask! Of course we would. But first I must stand
by the _Bunder Abbas_ until she had raised steam again and was in
safety. She was all right so far--a thousand yards to wind'ard, rolling
horribly. Someone began semaphoring, and I read, "Fires washed out--am
getting out sea anchor--will follow as soon as possible;" so Mr.
Scarlett, or Moore, or somebody, was keeping his head.
"We must try and work her up to wind'ard," I bawled in Dobson's ear, but
he shook his head and bawled something back which I could not hear. I
meant to try, and the first thing to do was to get control of the helm,
though how to do that with all those Arabs squatting there, glaring at
us, I didn't know.
"Tell them to get for'ard," I yelled to Jaffa, and saw him crawl aft and
shout something at them, gesticulating in a commanding way, though those
infernal fellows only smiled and sat still, half a dozen of them holding
on to the tiller ropes.
Dobson looked at me and bawled in my ear:
"I'll get hold of the helm tackles--just you shoot if any of them tries
any of their tricks."
"No! I'll go," I yelled, ashamed to funk the job.
I waited till the dhow was steady for a moment, worked my way along the
weather gunwale, dodging those balks of timber which were being washed
about the deck, until I was right in the middle of them. That beastly
little dog snapped at my bare feet as I grabbed one of the tiller ropes
to steady myself, and I kicked him back under the poop.
I yelled and waved to the crew to get for'ard, staying among them and
kicking two of them in the ribs to make them let go of the ropes. They
took not the slightest notice. The nakhoda was just behind me, and I
feared, every moment, that I should feel a knife in my back.
Jaffa came scrambling to join me--I never thought that he would have the
pluck to do so.
"Tell the nakhoda that if the crew don't go for'ard in two minutes I'll
shoot him," I roared.
The nakhoda looked impassively to wind'ard whilst I pointed my revolver
at his head and held up my wrist watch, so that he could see it, and
waited.
A minute went past--Jaffa looked nervously round; the nakhoda folded his
burnous more closely round his head. Two minutes went by--not a single
one in all that stolid group moved; they still clung to the tiller
ropes. I gave him three minutes. Three minutes went by, and that Arab
nakhoda knew perfectly well that I would not shoot him in cold blood.
Nor could I. I let go the tiller rope and crawled for'ard again,
absolutely not knowing what to do next.
We were driving and twisting, screwing and yawing before the gale like a
bit of driftwood, seas toppling over the bows and the waist and washing
right across the decks. And that crowd refused to budge--would not have
done anything to save their own lives, I believe.
If they had only taken the offensive and attacked us I should have
whooped with the joy of fighting--that cargo of rifles down below was
worth fighting for--but they would not.
Dobson it was who settled the question.
With a "Look out, sir, I'm going for 'em", he took the opportunity of a
moment when the dhow was on a level keel and rushed into the middle of
them. He seized the burnous over the nakhoda's head, and before that
malignant brute could get his hands free he had hauled the loose folds
across his throat, choked him, pulled him off the poop on to the deck,
and began hauling him for'ard.
In a trice those Arabs were on their feet, throwing off their upper
clothes, and snarling like a lot of dogs. Two of them caught Dobson's
foot, and tried to throw him. Wiggins and I were among them in a
moment, hitting right and left, until my knuckles were bleeding. In a
jumbling, struggling crowd, with that dog barking and biting round us,
we were thrown from port to starboard, as the dhow rolled; but somehow
or other we managed to get between the Arabs and Dobson, who had never
let go of the old man's neck.
A wave washed over us, and for a moment we had a breathing spell, and in
that moment I saw the nakhoda free one of his hands. He had a knife in
it, so I grabbed his arm, forced his wrist back, and gave him a blow on
the back of his head with the butt end of my revolver which knocked him
as limp as a rag.
As he fell, the crew, like one man, bent down to the folds round their
waists, drawing knives. Two of them had pistols, and before either
Wiggins, Dobson, or myself could use our revolvers they had fired, and a
bullet had whizzed past my head.
A pistol went off behind me; one of the Arabs--one of the two with
pistols--threw up his hands and fell. The others yelled and rushed for
us; but we were ready now. I chose the second man with a pistol, fired,
and missed him; another shot from behind knocked him over. I saw two
more fall. I got a slice over the head, the man who did it being
knocked down by Dobson before I knew he had touched me, and the rest had
had enough of it, and scrambled for'ard. The dog tried to follow them,
but made the mistake of attempting a last snap at Dobson's leg. Before
you could wink, that little cur was whirling through the air overboard.
In two minutes after Dobson had garrotted their nakhoda, we were masters
of that dhow.
I felt rather rocky, and sat down, holding on to a rope, with blood
simply pouring over my ear and shoulder.
Then it was that I saw Jaffa. I had forgotten him. He was standing
behind me, calmly re-charging a Mauser pistol in the most matter-of-fact
way possible, and I realized that it was his shots that had killed the
two pistol men. I tried to show that I was grateful. "Well shot,
Jaffa!" I shouted. "Tell them to take their dead and wounded for'ard."
Presently the six Arabs still on their legs crawled and slunk aft, and
dragged the two dead bodies away, helping the wounded man along the
deck, and then sitting in a ring round the foot of the mast, motionless
and mute as bats, drawing their cloaks round them to protect them from
the seas.
The nakhoda was still unconscious, so we secured him to a ring to
prevent him being washed overboard.
Someone lashed a handkerchief round my head and stopped the bleeding.
That made me more comfortable, and I was able to take stock of our
position.
Kuh-i-Mubarak, that hill near the southern creek, was now abreast us,
just visible through the gale. The shamel roared down on us more
fiercely than ever, driving in front of it a wild, jumping, short sea,
twenty feet high, with boiling crests. That such waves could have been
whipped up in such a short time seemed incredible.
Every now and then the launch's white side and her yellow funnel and
mast showed up against the dark sky to wind'ard; so she was still safe.
But we were more than two thousand yards to leeward of her, and how I
was going to beat up against that wind and sea in this crazy dhow I
didn't know.
However, I was not going to leave the launch helpless; I knew that she
could not raise steam for a long time, and determined to make the
attempt.
"I'm going to hoist that sail--part way up--see if we can work to
wind'ard," I bawled to Dobson.