“Nonsense. Just mind your own business,” replied Hughes, as he picked up the discharged rifle, shouldered it, and joined the party on the Shire’s bank.
The “Halcyon.”
The coast of Africa, as seen from the sea, is never very prepossessing; and the sandy spit of land, with the equally sandy bar, which obstructs the entrance to the Zambesi at Quillimane, is no exception to the rule, while the banks of the river are low and flat, dotted here and there with tall cocoa-palms, and haunted by alligators. The town itself, or rather village, for it can hardly boast of any more sounding name, consists of a few better-class houses, one of which was owned by Dom Assevédo, and a number of half-ruinous huts and sheds. The anchorage is unsafe, and often untenable, while the low-lying land is a hot-bed of fever. Outside the bar, her two anchors down, the blue peter at her fore, and the English Union Jack floating at her gaff, rode the brig “Halcyon.” She was a rakish-looking craft, her long low black hull rising on the waves, and showing from time to time her bright clean copper as she rolled. Her masts raked slightly off, her sharp bows and sides round as an apple, told the seaman at once that she must be a dry ship, and her breadth of beam, if needed, attested the fact. Every bit of brass work on board was as usual rubbed bright as gold, every rope was carefully coiled down, and her decks white as snow. The “Halcyon” would not, in fact, as she rode to her anchors off the bar at Quillimane, have disgraced herself, even had she been, as she once was, her Majesty’s gun brig “Torch.”
Sold out at a time when the system of steam was rapidly changing the aspect of the navy, the “Torch” was nearly new. Bought by a Liverpool firm, she had been thoroughly overhauled and fitted out for a three years’ cruise on the African coast, trading in ivory, gold dust, and ostrich feathers.
Captain Weber, an old sailor of thirty years’ standing, commanded and partly owned her, and on such a voyage of course great latitude had been allowed him.
His three years’ trading voyage ended, and bound for the Cape, but intending once more to touch at Delagoa Bay, he had been induced to delay his departure in consideration of the handsome sum offered by the Portuguese nobleman returning from his tour of inspection of the stations on the Zambesi.
Captain Weber, as has been already mentioned, was a middle-sized stout built man, with a reddish mahogany-coloured face, and long grey hair. He was proud of his brig, lived for her, and believed in her capabilities to an unlimited extent. His first-mate, Thomas Blount, was a young man for his station in life, rather tall, and, as we have already seen, fond of dress. The two were leaning over the bulwarks, looking towards the land, one afternoon, three days after the events just narrated. The crew, which was a strong one, consisting of twenty hands, all told, were between decks.
“Our passengers should arrive this afternoon. Dom Assevédo’s messenger said so, did he not, Captain Weber?”
“Yes, and that haze to the southward and eastward tells of a blow. It will be a foul wind for us. We must make sail before sunset, Mr Blount.”