Obviously I had hauled in the wrong end and the whole dreary, noisy process had to be reversed; but after hours of labour I got that big boat adrift, and aroused nobody. She was down by the head with the weight of chain, and there was much water in her, but the chief fact evident to me when I got fairly adrift was that there were no oars! I hadn’t thought of that before. So I got a bottom board and did the best I could with that in the direction I supposed my ship to lie. Presently a shadowy hulk loomed up ahead and a hoarse Qui va là? greeted me. Need I say that I did not reply. But I sweated hugely, expecting every moment to be shot. Three ships I passed, the sentry hailing me like that, and never an answer from me. And then, with the nyctalopic eyesight of the sailor, I saw my ship ahead. I forgot the feeble tides of the South Seas, and worked like a beaver to gain the gangway. I did, and (I have grieved over the act ever since, but what was I to do?) sent the boat adrift as I triumphantly climbed the side ladder and sought my bunk. I have only to add that no echo of that night’s exploit ever reached me, and I had to come to the conclusion that the occasional escapes of convicts was comparatively easy when the escapees were prepared to risk their lives in the operation.
Another adventure which was good to laugh at afterwards but very unpleasant at the time befell me on the beach at Tamatave, Madagascar. I was mate of a pretty little brig and went ashore one night to fetch the captain, who was dining with somebody. It was a glorious night with a full moon, but very late, and I do not know what prompted me to go with the two good fellows who rowed. We were soon ashore and, the time hanging heavily, we all decided on a bathe. A most enjoyable swim and wallow in the tepid water followed, and we emerged to dress in our two garments which lay on the beach near by. But as we came ashore a troop of huge ferocious dogs such as then infested Tamatave suddenly rushed at us, and we made for the first place of refuge that presented itself, a huge pyramid of beef bones which lay near the sea, white under the moon-rays. We fled up that pyramid, shedding blood and bad words at every stumbling stride, but we gained the summit without a dog bite, and from that eminence turned on our foes and bombarded them with bones.
It was very cold to our naked bodies, and the dogs looked horribly fierce down there, but every now and then we rejoiced to hear a well-aimed shin bone go bang against some mangy hide, and the following yells were music to our ears. Our shying redoubled, and after a few minutes we were able to descend from our captivity and chase the brutes away. We had suffered many things to our bare feet and legs from the jagged bones, but we took those bones on board for cargo, and I often shuddered afterwards to think what our feelings would have been had we then known that every hollow contained a centipede, a scorpion, or a tarantula. Ugh! they furnished our ship for us, those beastly bones, with these lethal vermin, and we had spent nearly a quarter of an hour among that magazine of venom, naked.
Since, while I was mate of that vessel, the fever smote down every member of the ship’s company except the bos’un and myself, and we carried on the work of the ship in Zanzibar with slaves, there would reasonably seem to be many opportunities for adventure. And that was certainly the case; but the whole life was so strange and exotic, so full of differences from the ordered life of our civilisation, that I feel it impossible to select from it any salient incidents. Especially as these are recollections, not inventions, and I don’t recall any scenes of bloodshed on board. Only I once had the temerity to go ashore on a Sunday at Zanzibar, when a wild mêlée was raging and crowds of naked blacks were yelling at the pitch of their voices while slashing furiously about them with their long butcher knives whose edges were keen as razors.
I afterwards commented upon what I had seen to Ali, our Suahili cook, who immediately waxed enthusiastic upon the joys of the English Sunday, when, as he put it:—
“All mans plenty get dlunk, plenty fight, plenty play knife.” Yes, he called it play: with a smile like a huge white gash across his ebony face, he showed me his scars; my conscience, the fellow must have been cut to ribbons in his time. One particularly ghastly scar he had on his right thigh. It was a whitish knotted lump almost as big as a shut fist. I enquired about it, and he nonchalantly informed me that it was got one Sunday morning when the boys were playing.
“And what did you do to the man who gave it you?”
“Oh, I cut ’im belly orf,” with the most careless air.
“What happened to you then?” I enquired.
“Two year prison; s’pose kill man, Sultan make work in gaol two year.”