Chapter Eleven.
Cruising in the Dodo—The Bluebell—How oysters grow on trees—Away up the beautiful river—The Bluebell aground—Noontide on the river.
On board the Dodo once more, steaming steadily northwards; some times far out at sea, with nothing but the blue all round them: sometimes hugging the green-wooded shore: sometimes casting anchor at the mouths of mighty rivers, and sending armed boats away to seek for the slave dhows that hid all day under the hanging boughs, and stole out to sea at night. Chisholm, the oldest of our heroes, confessed he had never enjoyed a voyage so much in his life. At last, however, they cast anchor in Zanzibar, and were nothing loth to go on shore to stretch their legs. The captain accompanied them in his gig, dressed in full uniform—cocked-hat, epaulettes, and sword. He was going to visit the Consulate, and expected news of some importance.
Accompanied by a black boy, who wore no clothes worth mentioning, but could speak English and prided himself thereon, they went for a grand tour of inspection. The streets were narrow, long, and winding, and oftentimes bridged over at the top, so that the residents in one house could cross over to see their friends on the other side of the way, without the trouble of coming downstairs. There was a singular absence of windows in the houses of the gentlemen Arabs, Banians, or Hindus; every room of which, although furnished luxuriantly, is very dark and cool. In the bazaar and in the streets where the shops were, there was hardly any moving along, so great was the motley crowd, and, saving the women and the innumerable slaves, every one they met was armed to the teeth. The warrior Arabs, with their long flowing hair, dressed in embroidered robes of snowy white, with cloaks of camel’s hair, gilded turbans and jewelled sword-belts, looked boldly picturesque; these mingled in the streets with—white-gowned Hindus, and long-faced, dark-coated Parsees; sailors in blue and soldiers in scarlet, and sacred solemn-looking cows with gilded horns, which many a one touched with fond reverence, as they walked quietly along. And the background of all this picture was slavery; slavery panting and perspiring as it dragged itself along in chains; slavery cowering under the lash of the driver’s whip; slavery bent to the ground under loads of cowrie shells; slavery, dark unhappy slavery.
Our heroes were glad to find themselves at last out in the green and flowery country, wandering under the shade of giant trees, and inhaling the sweet perfume of orange blossom. The first person they met on their return from shore was Captain Lyell himself. He shook hands with them all round, at which they were not a little surprised, but they could see by his face there was something in the wind.
“Come down below,” he said. When he got them there he continued, “I’ve got good news, gentlemen, in fact, I may say glorious news; let me tell it to you all in one sentence. First, then, I’m promoted; I’m now Captain Lyell in reality, and not by courtesy alone; secondly, I’m going home—another officer has arrived to take command of the Dodo; thirdly, I’ve applied to the Commodore for four months’ leave; fourthly, I’ve got it; fifthly and lastly, I’ve hired a pretty little river steamboat from a Scotch friend on shore here, one that takes all to pieces for the boys to carry, quite an African explore boat, and I’m ready to start with you to-morrow if you like for the interior, and if we don’t get the rarest of sport, why I shan’t believe that my name is plain John Lyell.”
It is needless to say that after this there was another round of hand-shaking, or that the dinner that day was enlivened by some of the captain’s very best and rarest of reminiscences.
The little steamer which Lyell had hired was indeed a beauty, quite a fairy boat. Getting her ready for the voyage and packing the stores, getting in all necessaries, and hiring “the boys” occupied quite a week. Then they went out on their trial trip. The day was beautiful—it was the sunny season in the Indian ocean—there was just enough wind to temper the heat and ripple the sea. The many pretty islands they visited seemed, at a distance, to float in the sky; they were emerald green, and fringed with a beach of snowy sand. They landed on some of these and shot a species of small deer and rabbits—wild rabbits such as we have at home. (I cannot account for the presence of rabbits on some islands in the channel of the Mozambique, but there they are.) In a little sandy cove of one of these islands, they took luncheon al fresco, previously enjoying the luxury of a bath, all taking a header at once and making all the noise they could to keep the sharks at bay.
The trial trip was perfectly satisfactory; so next morning early, it was up anchor and off. The Bluebird hadn’t much space between decks, but they had an awning spread, and lounging on deck was delightful. They headed north, keeping two or three miles from the shore. This shore was a cloudland of green, without beach or sea border of any kind.