Book Three—Chapter One.
Alone in the Wilderness.
’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.