The End of the Voyage
Three days later the dhow was bowling along up the Mozambique Channel
with the Madagascar coast showing broad on the starboard beam.
Peter was once more in charge of things. He had made a quick recovery
from his hurts, although he still experienced a difficulty in
swallowing.
Preston too was making favourable progress. His latest wound was a
clean cut. Up to the present there had been no complications, and his
amateur nurses had good reason to think that none would be forthcoming.
With Mahmed things were different. Twenty-four hours elapsed before he
regained consciousness. He was suffering from at least half a dozen
deep knife wounds and several others of a lesser degree of danger. In
addition to a serious loss of blood, he was in a high fever.
Peter was greatly concerned over the dangerous state of his trusty
servant. He had thought of putting into the nearest port in Madagascar
and landing Mahmed for medical treatment, but the boy besought Mostyn
Sahib so fervently that he should not be left that Peter decided to
carry on.
There was no longer any doubt about the dhow's position. On board,
Mostyn had discovered, amongst other articles of navigation, a
British-made sextant, and, as soon as the Acting Chief recovered
sufficiently Preston had fixed the latitude. The absence of a
chronometer mattered little, since the Madagascar coast was visible to
starboard.
By the aid of Arab charts it was found that the dhow was now within six
hundred miles of Pangawani, the nearest port in the Kilba Protectorate,
and, indeed, the nearest territory under British rule. Provided the
wind held, the dhow ought to reel off those six hundred miles in from
five to six days.
Everything considered, Peter congratulated himself. In a stout,
weatherly craft, although on very unconventional lines according to
British standards, there was little cause for anxiety on the score of
danger. There were ample provisions of sorts, and sufficient fresh
water to enable the dhow to carry on without being under the necessity
of putting into any port to revictual.
The Arab prisoners gave little trouble. Given food and water and
medical stores of their own providing, they accepted the changed
conditions with typical Moslem fatalism. Twice a day they were allowed
on deck singly, ostentatiously covered by Mostyn with his automatic;
and, without the slightest show of opposition, they returned to their
place of captivity in the hold directly they were so ordered.
Amongst other articles discovered in the Arab captain's cabin was a
leather bag, containing gold and silver coins of an approximate value
of L120. This Peter placed in a large trunk, which, in default of lock
and key, was secured by driving in several long nails. He told no one
of his find, but resolved to hand over the money to the port
authorities as soon as the dhow arrived at Pangawani.
After distinguishing herself by knocking out her Arab assailant and
making herself useful until Peter was able to resume control, Mrs.
Shallop had drifted back into her old style. For hours at a stretch
she remained in the cabin assigned to her. When she did appear she
indulged in outbursts of complaints against everything in general.
Peter now suffered her in silence. He could afford to do so, knowing
that within the next few days he would be relieved both of her company
and his responsibility.
On the fifth day following the acquisition of the dhow, the Comoro
Islands were sighted on the starboard bow. There were now plenty of
craft to be seen, from tramp steamers to dhows. Mostyn let them pass
without attempting to communicate. A sort of spirit of independence
possessed him. Having gone thus far without outside assistance he was
determined to see the business through. Had urgent necessity arisen he
would have stopped a large vessel and requested medical attention, but
Mahmed was making good progress, and was so emphatic in his desire to
remain with his master, that any thwarting of his wishes in that
direction would have more than counterbalanced any good that a doctor
might have done.
It was not until the morning of the eighth day that land was sighted on
the port bow. Once again, after days of adventure, Mostyn was gazing
upon the African mainland.
"You'll have to be jolly careful how you approach Pangawani Harbour,
old son," cautioned Preston for the twentieth time. "For goodness sake
don't put the old hooker on the bar and kipper the show."
"I don't intend to," replied the cautious Peter. "The Arab chart isn't
much good. It's on too small a scale. I'll bring up and signal for a
pilot, unless there's another vessel making the port. If so, I'll
follow her in."
As ill luck would have it the wind dropped about midday, and Mostyn had
the mortification of seeing the entrance to Pangawani Harbour at less
than five miles away, without being able to gain a hundred yards
through the water. At times the dhow was appreciably drifting away
from the desired haven. Until close on sunset she was becalmed. Then
a stiff off-shore breeze sprang up.
There was no help for it. Throughout the night the dhow was under way
close hauled, passing and repassing the entrance without being able to
cross the bar. Even after the wind had freed her, Peter would not have
risked the intricate entrance in the darkness. So, with the roar of
the surf borne to his ears, Peter kept watch during the darkness, until
dawn revealed the fact that the dhow was immediately abreast of and
less than a mile from the actual fairway.
Yet the harbour was denied him. The sea breeze gave place to another
calm, and it was not until the sun was high in the heavens that the
customary onshore wind began to make itself felt.
There were other craft making the harbour. Several dhows were in
sight, their crews, tired of waiting for the breeze, laboriously
sweeping the ponderous craft. Farther away was a gunboat, her
white-painted sides looking strangely unfamiliar to people accustomed
to the "battleship grey" of warships in home waters.
"She's down from Zanzibar," declared Preston. "She's got a soft job
nowadays, but those fellows had a sticky time when I was on the coast.
No, I don't think she's coming in here, otherwise we might have had a
tow in."
The dhow was now gathering way under the fair breeze. A cable's length
astern was another dhow, the crew of which had just relinquished their
sweeps and were preparing to hoist sail. Mostyn noticed that the
white-robed skipper was intently watching him, and that the curiosity
was shared by the rest of the Arab crew.
"P'raps he recognizes the old hooker," he remarked to Olive, who was
standing with him on the poop. "He'll be puzzling his brains to know
what we're doing on board."
Even as he spoke a distinct splash astern attracted his attention.
Stepping aft he was just in time to see a brown figure diving into the
water in the wake of another who was swimming a good ten feet beneath
the surface.
Then there was another splash and the performance was repeated.
"By Jove!" exclaimed Mostyn. "We've been done. Our prisoners are
escaping."
"Have escaped," corrected Olive as five heads, appeared above the
surface.
One of the Arabs was swimming strongly, at the same time shouting to
his compatriots on the nearest dhow. Two others were making slower
progress for the reason that each was encumbered by supporting a
disabled man.
Without let or hindrance the escaped prisoners gained the dhow astern
and were hauled upon deck. Then, putting her helm down, the succouring
craft went about and headed for the open sea.
"They've done us in the eye," declared Peter.
"I'm rather glad," said Olive.
"So am I in a way," agreed Mostyn. "Saved us a lot of trouble, handing
'em over, attending their trial, and all that sort of thing. But it's
a bit of a mystery how they managed to break out of the ship."
Leaving the lascar at the helm, Peter went below and examined the hatch
of the after-hold. It was intact and secured. Raising it he peered
below. The mystery was a mystery no longer. Unknown to him there were
two square ports right aft and just above the waterline, which, when in
harbour, were used to facilitate stowage of cargo. Seizing their
opportunity, the prisoners had kept observation until they saw a
friendly dhow within easy distance, and had made their escape through
one of the ports.
"And I'm also very glad," continued Peter, "that there's a gunboat
within sight, otherwise we might have had to try conclusions with a
dozen armed Arabs."
He turned to the second lascar.
"Hoist the pilot flag," he ordered.
The pilot flag--S International--was quickly forthcoming. In the
absence of a set of signal flags on board, Olive, under Peter's
direction, had made the required flag out of some white linen and a
square of blue cloth from the Arab skipper's wardrobe.
The signal was answered with far greater dispatch than at Bulonga, and
within half an hour the Pangawani pilot boat was alongside.
"Hello!" was the greeting of the dapper clean-shaven official, as he
came over the side and regarded with undisguised astonishment the
bedraggled and somewhat battered crew of the dhow. "Hello! You look
as if you've been in the wars. Where are you from?"
Before Mostyn could reply Preston broke in:
"Davis, old son!" he exclaimed. "Cut the cackle and get us in. I'm
dying for a whisky and soda."
"Great Scott!" ejaculated the pilot in astonishment. "Preston, by the
powers! We heard that you were lost in the _West Barbican_."
"All you hear isn't gospel, my bright youth," rejoined the Acting Chief
sententiously, as he took a cigarette from the case offered by the port
official. "Hardly expected to see you here, if it comes to that."
"They transferred me from Zanzibar in November last," exclaimed Davis.
"It's a move up. Here I'm practically my own boss."
He walked towards the tiller, turned on his heel, and glanced
shorewards.
"You can tell your fellows to stow sail," he continued. "We'll tow you
in."
"By the by," inquired Peter. "What is the date? We seem to have lost
count."
"The eleventh of January," was the reply.