“But he reckoned without his host that time, eh?” said I.
“Aye, that he did,” responded the ex-man-o’-war’s-man, warming up to his subject as he proceeded. “He made a great mistake, did that there Arab slave skipper when he thought he’d hoodwink us aboard the Dolphin this evening I’m a-talking of—a mistake, sir, as I’ll soon show you, that cost him not only his vessel, but his life as well!”
“Indeed?” I interposed, beginning to get interested in Ben’s yarn now that he had actually got under weigh with it in earnest.
“Yes, that it did,” replied Ben Campion, striking another match to relight his pipe, which had gone out in the interval, and puffing away vigorously for a few seconds in order to get it in full blast.—“He was a ’cute chap, though, that skipper,” continued Ben presently when he had got the pipe to go to his satisfaction;—“for no sooner had he perceived that we had observed him and were in chase, than he threw off all pretence of attempting to deceive us by passing off as a simple trader. Abandoning his design of beating up to Cape Delgado, he wore the dhow round as sharp as lightning and made off down along the coast, right before the full strength of the monsoon; where, with the wind in his favour, he would have a better chance of getting away from us, those dhows, as I’ve told you, sometimes walking away from a steam-pinnace as if she were standing still. This time, however, he had no cockle-shell of a pinnace after him, but a smart paddle-steamer, and one, too, that could go along well also before the wind, carrying square sails as did the Dolphin on her foremast and a huge spanker aft. A stern-chase, of course, is a long chase all the world over, as everybody knows, and ours was no exception. Still, all the time we gradually overhauled the dhow; and just about sunset we got within range of a long seven-inch gun, which we carried forwards. This, Mr Shrapnel, our gunner, trained right across the slaver’s bows, and at the word of command, ‘Fire!’ let drive with a bang that shook the steamer right down to her kelson and seemed to stop her way for the moment, sending her back, as it were, with the recoil.
“The gun was well aimed, the shot pitching up the water some fifty yards in front of her, but it didn’t seem to make any difference to the dhow a bit, her captain keeping right on with every stitch of his canvas set, the wide lateen sails bellying out to their full, as we could see, and the queer-looking craft burying herself in the foam that she churned up as she dived down into the waves every moment with a plunge, as if she were going headlong down to the bottom, taking in huge seas over her cat-heads; for it was blowing more than half a gale at the time, and even we in our bigger craft found it hard work carrying on as we did with both wind and steam. And I tell you we were going too! Our engines were revolving full speed ahead, and our canvas must have helped us full another five knots, with the wind dead astern as it was, and we running before it, while, to aid us, there was the usual inshore current—that runs down the coast of the Mozambique from Cape Delgado to right opposite Madagascar, where it turns off more in an easterly direction—carrying us along like a mill-race, some rate of three knots more. It made the Dolphin quiver and tremble through every timber as she seemed literally to fly through the water, but it didn’t make us approach the dhow any closer, although we held our own. As the wind got up more and more, for it was the tail-end of the north-east monsoon, as I told you, and those blessed monsoons always die out with a brush when they’ve got to the end of their tether, the slaver appeared to rise bodily out of the water and skim along the surface from the top of one rolling wave on to another—just as you see an albatross does off the Cape of Good Hope when it has taken its first dart downwards after its prey, and has then to pursue it over the sea, the large sheets of the triangular sails of the dhow standing out on either side of her low dark keel in the same way as the pinions of the albatross touch the water in its flight.
“Mr Shrapnel was told to fire another gun; but it had no greater effect than the first one, and our skipper hardly seemed to know what to do; for the dhow was now heading more towards the land, and the Dolphin would soon be in shoal water, as there are lots of reefs about them parts. It would never do, either, to fire right into her, although we were well within range now, as we might probably damage some of the poor slaves aboard, who were no doubt packed as tightly as herrings in a barrel; and yet, it was growing dark, the sun being just on the point of setting over the highlands of the great African continent on our starboard hand. If we didn’t do something pretty soon Mr Arab dhow would be able to cry, ‘Walker!’ and laugh at us for the wild-goose chase he had led us!”
“You must have been pretty anxious as the moments flew by, the sun setting, and the darkness creeping up, without your being able to overhaul her?” I said.
“We were all that,” replied Ben, knocking the ashes out of his pipe viciously as if he were giving the slave captain a rap on the head;—“and as we stood grouped around the deck amidships close by the engine-room hatch, fixing on our cutlasses and getting ready for the scrimmage, should luck enable us to have one, I don’t know what we said we wouldn’t do to the impudent beggars when we got aboard!
“The land was looming well on our beam, some six miles distant, and those breakers visible between us and it. The situation was a ‘tight’ one, if there ever was such, for it looked uncommon like as if the captain of the dhow intended running ashore and risking her breaking to pieces on the rocks, if he couldn’t find an opening in the coast into some lagoon where he could with his light draught beach the craft in safety. He was evidently determined to escape us, run what risk he might!
“I was standing alongside our skipper on the bridge; and I could see that he, too, was bound not to be licked, for he had screwed up his mouth in a way that he had when he had made up his mind to something, and then the admiral himself wouldn’t have turned him from it!—He was a bold, courageous officer, was Captain Wilson, and every inch a sailor. Poor chap! he afterwards fell a victim to the fatal coast fever at Zanzibar.