“Avast, there! Mr Lowe,” grumbled Forest. “Remember what ye promised us, sir.”
“I’ll heave-to and send a boat,” was the shout that came across the waters, and the next moment the necessary orders were given, and so close were the ship and raft, that the words of command were heard distinctly on board the latter, as the “Dolphin” came to the wind, and under her two topsails, jib, and spanker, lay hove-to. A boat was lowered, and half an hour later the mate of the “Halcyon” was telling his sad tale in the cabin of the “Dolphin.” Her late crew were in irons forward, her passengers cared for, the ship working her way for Port Natal, and the deserted raft, stripped to the spars themselves, floating miles astern.
The evil time at last seemed to have ended, for that afternoon the westerly breeze died away, and the “Dolphin,” with a fair wind, lay her course, dropping her anchor in the almost land-locked harbour, without an accident, landing her passengers and prisoners, and sailing again on her whaling voyage.
Six weeks had elapsed since her departure. The Bishop of Cape Town, who had chanced to be at Durban at the time, had, at the missionary’s request, again performed the marriage ceremony, which had so hastily been solemnised on board the sinking brig. The remains of the tough British seaman, Captain Weber, had been buried with all honour in the cemetery of the town, and the same slab covered him, his carpenter Morris, and old Adams. Mr Lowe, in charge of the gold dust, had left for England, as second officer of the barque “The Flying Fish,” which had put into Port Natal disabled by the gale which had so ill-treated the unfortunate “Halcyon.”
One afternoon, about six weeks after the sailing of the “Dolphin,” a small party of three stood on the beach at Port Natal.
A large steamer, with the blue peter flying at the fore, the union jack at her mizen peak, and a cloud of dense black smoke rising from her funnel, could be seen off the bar, while a boat, manned by four powerful men, rose and fell on the rollers close by the beach.
“Even at this last moment, Wyzinski, it is not too late. There are plenty of empty berths on board the ‘Saxon.’”
Hughes seemed greatly moved, and the missionary’s usually impassive face showed signs of deep emotion, which, it was evident, he suppressed with difficulty.
“No, old friend. No, it must not be,” he replied, his thin lips quivering as he spoke. “The work we have begun together, I will finish if I live. The ‘Ruined Cities of Zulu Land’ exist, and the dangers we have gone through have but opened out the way. Noti’s life lost on the banks of the Golden River, Luji’s sacrificed to save ours on the plains of Manica, must not have been given in vain.”
A deep silence ensued as Isabel, leaning on her husband’s arm, looked pensively over the sea. The sound of the steam-whistle was heard, warning the loiterers on the beach that their time was short.