An Eventful River Trip
"What a one-eyed crib!" exclaimed Anstey, as the _West Barbican_ slowly
approached the low-lying coast in the neighbourhood of Bulonga.
Mostyn nodded in concurrence.
The outlook was dreary in the extreme. All there was to be seen was a
squalid collection of galvanized-iron huts rising above a low, sandy
spit; a few gaunt palms; a line of surf--not milk-white, but
coffee-coloured--and a background of sun-dried hills.
The whole coast seemed to have been scorched up by the sun. Brown and
drab colours predominated. The foliage was of a sombre drab-green
narrowly approaching a dull copper colour. Even the sea in the
vicinity of the harbour had lost its usual clearness and appeared to be
charged with a muddy sediment.
"Any sign of the pilot, Mr. Anstey?" inquired Captain Bullock.
The "S International", the signal for a pilot, had been flying from the
topmast-head for the last hour, as the _West Barbican_ cautiously
closed with the inhospitable-looking coast, but there were no signs of
activity ashore.
In ordinary circumstances it was customary for the ship to wireless her
agents, asking them to make arrangements for a pilot; but, since there
were no agents at Bulonga, nor even a wireless station, that procedure
was put out of court. There remained only the old-time flag signal to
summon a pilot from shore.
"No sign yet, sir," replied the officer of the watch. He had been
scanning the shore through a telescope until his eyes smarted. The
glare form those "tin" huts seemed to be reflected through the lenses
of the telescope to his optic nerve. He was literally seeing red.
"All asleep, I suppose," commented the Old Man. "It beats me why we've
been ordered to this rotten hole. Try 'em with the siren, Mr. Anstey."
The echoes of the powerful whistle had hardly died away when a hoist of
bunting rose slowly in the humid air. Until a faint zephyr caught the
flags it was impossible for the _West Barbican_ to understand the
import of the signal.
"FWE," sang out Anstey. "That reports that there's not enough water on
the bar, sir."
"Not enough fiddlesticks!" snapped the Old Man. "It's within half an
hour of high water. We'll lose the flood if they don't get busy.
Besides, how the blazes do they know our draught? For two pins I'd
take her in myself."
No doubt the skipper, with the aid of chart, compass, and lead-line,
could have navigated the ship across the bar with complete success. He
had worked his way into uncharted harbours before to-day. But should
the vessel ground he would be in a very difficult position with the
Board of Trade. Even if he were successful in getting the ship safely
alongside the quay there might be trouble with the Portuguese officials
for not complying with the port regulations.
"That chap who wrote something about those serving who only stand and
wait didn't know much about the tides," fumed the Old Man. "Here's the
blessed tide serving, but it won't stand and it won't wait, and time's
precious."
Nevertheless the skipper had to wait, impatiently and irritably, until
such times as the easy-going officials sent out a pilot.
It was more than an hour later before a white motor-boat with an awning
fore and aft was seen approaching the ship.
As the boat drew nearer its ugliness became apparent. The paint was
dirty, and in places rubbed away to the bare planking. The awning had
seen better days, and had been roughly patched in a dozen places. A
couple of coir fenders trailed drunkenly over the side, while the
painter was dragging through the water. The motor was wheezing like a
worn-out animal and emitting smoke from numerous leaky joints, while
the clutch, slipping badly, was rasping like a rusty file.
A Zanzibari native was "tending" the engine, and a half-caste
Portuguese was at the wheel. In the stern-sheets was a short and very
stout man puffing at an enormous cigar. He wore a dirty white uniform
with a lavish display of tarnished gilt braid, while set at an angle on
his bushy hair was a peaked cap with the Mozambique arms.
"Goo' mornin', Senhor Capitano!" he exclaimed, when the boat ranged
awkwardly alongside. "Me pilot. Get you in in shake o'
brace--no--brace o' shake."
Still puffing his cigar the Portuguese pilot came over the side and
waddled on to the bridge.
"Vat you draw?" he inquired.
The Old Man gave him the ship's draught.
"Ver' mooch," rejoined the pilot, shrugging his shoulders. "Tide go.
Why you no call me before?"
But get her in he did, although the propeller was throwing up muddy
sand and the keel plates were slithering over the bottom.
Half an hour later the _West Barbican_ was berthed alongside the
quay--a dilapidated structure partly stone and partly timber, with
rusty bollards that, judging by their appearance, had not made the
acquaintance of mooring-ropes for months. Clearly the maritime
activities of Bulonga were largely dormant.
Presently--there was no hurry, everything at Bulonga being done on the
"do it to-morrow" principle--the Customs officers came on board.
They were bilious-looking rascals, whose broad hints for "palm-oil"
were as plain as the fellaheen demanding baksheesh. To them the task
of searching for dutiable goods was of secondary importance.
From one of them, who spoke English passably, Captain Bullock elicited
the information that there was no British agent in the place; neither
was there telegraphic, telephonic, nor railway communication with
anywhere. Once a week a small steamer brought up outside the bar for
the purpose of collecting and delivering mails and parcels. When the
weather was rough, or the bar impassable, the inhabitants of Bulonga
had to wait another week, perhaps two, for news of the outside world.
"We'll have to hand over the steelwork to some one, Preston," observed
the Old Man. "We can't dump it on the quay and leave it to rot. Nip
ashore and see if there's a fairly reliable storekeeper who will freeze
on to the stuff till it's wanted. We'll need a covered store at least
a hundred and twenty feet in length."
The Acting Chief returned on board with the information that there was
a suitable place, and only one. The owner, a timber exporter and
importer, had gone home, and no one knew when he was likely to return.
He lived at a place called Duelha, about seven or eight miles up the
river that empties itself into the shallow Bulonga Harbour, and he was
in the habit of journeying to and fro by means of a motor-boat.
"We'll have to rout him out," decided Captain Bullock. "I'll send my
motor-boat. Meanwhile we'll engage natives and start getting the stuff
out of the hold. The question is: who am I going to send away with the
boat? You'll be on duty on deck, Preston, and Anstey will be tallying
in the hold. I've got it. I'll get young Mostyn to go."
He went to the end of the bridge and looked down. On the
promenade-deck were Peter and Olive watching the dreary harbour.
Miss Baird had taken her great disappointment remarkably well. On the
principle that there is no time like the present, she refused to dwell
upon the prospects of returning home. She would have to, she supposed,
in due course; meanwhile she was on board the _West Barbican_ without
any immediate chance of returning even as far as Durban. And the
longer the voyage the better, she decided.
"This doesn't look promising for our sail, Miss Baird," said Peter.
"The tide's ebbing like a millrace. Look at those trunks of trees
coming down. They'd give a small boat a nasty biff if they fouled her."
"And no wind," added the girl. "Mr. Preston was telling me that in the
harbours on this coast it blows from the land from sunset till about
ten o'clock, and from the sea from a little after sunrise till ten in
the morning. Between times it's usually a flat calm."
The harbour viewed from within looked far more uninviting than it did
from the offing. The ebb was in full swing--a turgid, evil-smelling
rush of coffee-coloured water. Already the mud-banks fringing the
mangrove-covered islands were uncovering and throwing out a noxious
mist under the powerful rays of the tropical sun, which was now almost
immediately overhead.
Mostyn found himself comparing Bulonga Harbour most unfavourably with
the lovely lagoons and coral reefs of the Pacific islands.
"It may be better later on in the afternoon," he remarked. "Say an
hour before high water. If----"
He broke off abruptly, for Captain Bullock was descending the
bridge-ladder.
"Hello, young lady!" exclaimed the skipper. "What do you say to a run
in my launch? I'm sending her up-stream in a few minutes. You'll be
snug enough under the double canopy over the stern-sheets."
"It ought to be rather exciting, Captain Bullock," replied Olive,
glancing at the surging ebb. "It would be very nice to see what it's
like."
"Right-o!" rejoined the skipper. "Mr. Mostyn, will you take charge of
the boat? You seem the best man for the job, considering that it's
your father's steelwork we are dealing with. Take this letter to a
Senhor Jose Aguilla, who hangs out at a place called Duelha. I'll show
you it on a chart. Get him to come down as soon as possible. If he's
like the rest of these gentry that will be _manana_. In any case,
bring back a written reply to this letter."
"Very good, sir."
"Carry on, then. Pass the word for the serang to have the motor-boat
hoisted out and the awnings and side-curtains spread. Miss Baird, can
you be ready in a quarter of an hour?"
Mostyn hurried away to carry out his instructions.
"Good sort, the Old Man," he soliloquized. "And at one time I thought
I'd hate him like poison. It just shows a fellow that it's not wise to
judge by first impressions."
Promptly the serang and half a dozen lascars came upon the scene and
began to cast off the lashings that secured the motor-boat to No. 2
hatch. The little craft was Captain Bullock's private property. She
was about twenty-five feet in length, carvel-built of teak, and had a
12-horse-power paraffin engine installed under the fore-deck.
'Midships was a well, fitted with a wheel and motor controls, while the
spacious cockpit aft was provided with a folding hood, as well as
double awnings spread between tall brass stanchions.
In less than ten minutes the boat had been swung out by means of a
derrick, and was straining at her painter alongside the accommodation
ladder.
With Senhor Aguilla's letter in the breast-pocket of his drill tunic
and his automatic in his hip-pocket, Mostyn waited at the head of the
ladder until Olive appeared, wearing a light, linen skirt and coat and
a topee with a gold-edged pugaree.
It was "stand easy". Notwithstanding the tremendous heat the officers
were spending their leisure in a manner followed by Britons all the
world over. They were playing cricket, with the netted promenade-deck
as the field, and stumps precariously supported by a small wooden base.
Yet the thrill of deck-cricket paled into insignificance when Olive
Baird appeared. One and all the players flocked to the side to watch
her departure in the Old Man's motor-boat.
From the top of the accommodation ladder Peter signed to the native
engineer, and by the time Olive stepped agilely into the stern-sheets,
without taking advantage of Mostyn's proffered hand, the motor was
purring gently.
"Let go aft--let go for'ard!" ordered Peter. "Touch ahead."
By a gentle movement of the wheel Mostyn got the boat clear of the
ship's side without the risk of hitting the propeller. He knew from
experience that the effect of helm is to swing a boat's stern round and
not her bows. Then, with a sign to the native engineer to "let her all
out", Peter steadied the boat on her course.
The Old Man's private launch was no sluggard. She could do a good nine
knots, but her progress against the formidable ebb seemed tediously
slow. She was slipping through the coffee-coloured water quickly
enough, as her bow-wave and clear wake denoted; but she seemed to be
crawling past the low river banks at less than a slow walking pace.
Peter did not mind. He had no idea of wasting time in the execution of
his orders, but, on the other hand, the relatively slow progress did
not worry him. He was perfectly happy. Olive, too, was obviously
enjoying the run. The breeze set up by the motion of the boat through
the still air was delightfully cooling after the enervating atmosphere
on board the _West Barbican_ alongside the wharf.
"Like to take her?" asked Peter, when a bend of the river hid them from
the ship.
"Rather," replied Miss Baird promptly, and, nimbly negotiating the
bulkhead between the stern-sheets and the steering-well, she mounted
the low, grating-fitted platform and grasped the wheel.
Mostyn, who had relinquished the helm, stood just behind and a little
to the side, so that he could command a view ahead. Occasionally he
had to consult the chart in order to avoid the numerous sand-banks.
"Look out for those floating logs, Miss Baird," he cautioned, as three
or four huge tree trunks, green with trailing weed, rolled lazily over
and over in their aimless passage to the open sea.
Olive avoided them easily. Peter's confidence in the helmswoman
increased by leaps and bounds. There was no hesitation on her part, no
bungling as the swift, frail craft passed between two of the logs with
less than six feet to spare on either side.
"Give that log a wide berth, Miss Baird," observed her companion, after
a number of obstructions had been avoided. "Unless I'm much mistaken
we'll find that log has a motor of sorts. Yes, by Jove! it has!"
The "log" was an enormous hippopotamus, floating motionless on the
water, with only its snout and a small portion of its back showing
above the surface.
At this point the river had contracted considerably, the actual
waterway being less than twenty yards from bank to bank, although at
half tide these banks were submerged and the width of the stream
increased to nearly a quarter of a mile.
Olive meant to give the brute as wide a berth as possible, while, on
the other hand, the hippo resolved on close quarters with the
motor-boat.
Instead of diving to the muddy bottom of the river the hippopotamus
began to swim rapidly towards the launch, opening its huge jaws with
evident relish at the prospect of biting out a few square feet of
gunwale and topside as an entree.
Mostyn and the native coxswain, who had hitherto been "standing easy",
were keenly on the alert. The latter, seizing an oar, made ready to
deal a blow upon the brute's head, although the hippo would have paid
no more attention to the blow than he would to being tickled with a
straw.
Olive showed no sign of nervousness. In fact, she acted so coolly and
with such excellent judgment that Peter made no attempt to grasp the
wheel.
Seeing the animal approach, the girl edged the boat well over to the
port side of the narrow channel. In spite of the speed of the launch
it was apparent that the hippo would cut it off if the same direction
were maintained.
Not until the boat's stem was within twenty yards of the brute did
Olive alter helm. Then, with a quick, even movement, she put the helm
hard-a-port.
Before the unwieldy animal could turn, the launch had literally scraped
the hippo's submerged hindquarters. Then, swinging the boat back on
her former course, the girl glanced at her companion.
"Near thing, that," she remarked. "I wonder that would have happened
if we'd hit it?"
"We would have come off worst," replied Peter, who, now the danger was
over, was beginning to realize what the consequences might have been.
"Perhaps you wouldn't mind taking on," said Olive a little later.
Mostyn took the helm. Although the girl had given no reason for
wanting to relinquish the wheel, he felt pretty certain that the
incident had shaken her up a bit.
"You're all right?" he asked.
"Quite," was the reply.
Presently the river widened considerably. The launch was now within
half a mile of her destination, but, according to the chart, there was
a submerged bank on the starboard hand, and fairly deep water close to
the right bank.
Without warning the impetus of the launch was arrested. Peter was
flung against the wheel; Olive, losing her balance, cannoned into him,
and was saved from a violent concussion against the coaming by the fact
that the native coxswain had got there first, and had been winded by
his impact with the woodwork. The engineer, who had crawled under the
fore-deck to replenish the contents of a grease-cup, was flung along
the narrow floor by the motor and finished up by butting the petrol
tank.
"Aground!" exclaimed Mostyn, stating what was an obvious and
accomplished fact.
The engine was racing furiously. Jerking the reverse lever into the
astern position Peter hoped that the action of the powerful propeller
would release the launch from her predicament. It was in vain. The
motor was racing as fast as ever, but there was no flow of water past
the boat's side to indicate that the propeller was going astern.
"Blades stripped, by Jove!" ejaculated Mostyn.
He switched off the ignition, and, in the relative quietude that
succeeded the machine-gun-like explosions of the exhaust, took stock of
the situation.
"Quite all right, thank you," replied the girl, in answer to Peter's
question. The reply set Mostyn wondering whether in any circumstances
Olive would say otherwise.
By this time the native coxswain was sitting up. Although he was not
taking nourishment he was gently caressing the bruised part of his
anatomy, but otherwise betraying no interest in things.
Then the engineer appeared, backing out of the motor-room, and mopping
the blood on his forehead with a silk scarf. Gaining the steering-well
he drew himself up and salaamed.
"Why sahib stop engine?" he inquired.
"'Cause the propeller blades are gone," replied Mostyn. "Savvy?
Blades--screw--no can do. Like this."
He tried to convey the magnitude of the disaster by means of dumb show.
The native failed to understand. Being aground mattered little to him;
being slung about like a pea in a box he took more or less as a matter
of course. The thing--the thing that counted--was the fact that the
sahib had taken unto himself the duty of Abdullah Bux, engineer of the
Sahib Captain's launch, and had stopped the motor. Abdullah Bux felt
that on that account he had a grievance.
The launch was lying well down by the head in about a couple of inches
of water. Her stem had struck a waterlogged tree trunk almost buried
in the soft mud. The impact had lifted her bows well clear of the
water, the greater portion of the keel passing over the obstruction
until, the bows dropping and plunging into the mud, the boat came to a
standstill. Then it was that the swiftly moving propeller had fouled
the log, with the result that the three blades were shorn off close to
the boss.
"Tide still ebbing," remarked Peter. "We're properly on it, Miss
Baird."
"Yes, unfortunately," was the rejoinder. "There's no way of getting
her off till the tide makes?"
"Might try kedging her off," suggested Mostyn.
"A kedge wouldn't hold in this slime," declared the practical Miss
Baird, "even if you were able to lay it out. But you can't. The mud's
too soft."
Peter sounded with an oar. The blade sank almost without resistance to
a depth of three feet in the noxious slime.
A tedious wait followed. There was no denying the fact that it was
tedious. Peter and the girl sat under the after canopy, but a
_tete-a-tete_ under these conditions was very different from one on the
promenade-deck of the _West Barbican_ on a tranquil, starlit night. It
was hot--insufferably so. Not only did the sun pour fiercely down upon
the double awning. The mud, now "dry", was radiating heat--a clammy,
evil-smelling heat, as the rotting vegetation left high and dry by the
receding tide lay sweltering in the sunshine. The heavy, motionless
air, for there was not the faintest suspicion of a breeze, reeked as
only the air of an African swamp can--an overpowering, nauseating
stench. Thrown in as a makeweight came the reek of hot oil from the
badly overheated engine.
"Tide's turning," said Peter, breaking the long silence.
There was no lull in the change from ebb to flood. At one moment the
brownish waters were foaming seawards; at the next a miniature "bore"
was breaking over the fringe of the mud-flats, bringing with it a
collection of flotsam in the form of branches and trunks of trees.
"'Fraid I'm giving you a rotten time," continued Peter apologetically.
"Sailing with Preston and Anstey in Durban must have been a joy
compared with this--and you told me you didn't like it a bit. You must
think I'm a rotten pilot."
"Nearly everyone gets aground some time or other," replied Olive. "The
awkward part is that this isn't exactly like the mud-banks of the
Tamar. And it's unfortunate about the propeller. What do you propose
to do when we float?"
"Row up to Duelha. It's less than half a mile. If we can't get a
spare propeller we might ask Senhor Aguilla to tow us back in his
motor-boat."
The flood-tide made with great rapidity. In less than half an hour the
launch was afloat. The two lascars manned the oars, and the boat,
borne rapidly by the tide, quickly covered the remainder of the way to
Duelha.
The Portuguese agent was overwhelmingly polite. He insisted on
entertaining Olive and Peter to coffee, and promised to tow the
disabled launch back to the ship, at the same time regretting that
there were no facilities at Duelha for repairs.
"Eet is no trouvel, senhor," declared the Portuguese. "I myself vill
speak to el capitano Bullock concerning de stores from de sheep. Eet
is pleasair to do business vid de Englees all de time."
It was sunset before Olive and Peter returned to the S.S. _West
Barbican_.