“There is no smoke there,” replied Robert, who had the field-glass; “perhaps they have not been able to cross the salt flats on the south of the lake.”
“Then it is their beacon fires which we see; but we cannot cross over in this boat in a storm.”
“Master,” suggested Robert, who always addressed me thus, “would it not be more prudent to land again before the storm reaches its height? We should be safe behind the stones, and we can gather a quantity of fuel before sunset.”
“Yes, that will perhaps be best; this lake is much more dangerous in a storm than Lake Lighten. We have, indeed, no furs, but we shall manage. Take in the sail and row behind the boulders. What are you gazing at?”
“Master, I see two large wolves, and we have no guns.”
He was right; two light, almost white, Isegrims were pacing the shore. They were so placed that they must be able to scent us in the boat; the odour of fresh live meat tickled their noses. When we stopped they stopped too, and when we began to move they went on close to the margin of the water. “Sooner or later you must come on shore, and then it will be our turn,” perhaps they thought. Rehim Ali opined that they were scouts of a whole troop, and said it was dangerous to expose ourselves to an attack in the night. He had only a clasp-knife with him, and Robert and I only pen-knives in our pockets; we had, therefore, little chance of defending ourselves successfully. Robert, for his part, preferred the lake in a storm to the wolves. I had so often slept out of doors unarmed, that I no longer troubled myself about them. But in the midst of our consultation we were suddenly compelled to think of something else. The storm came whistling over the lake.
| 77. Death in the Jaws of Wolves—or Shipwreck. |
Fortunately, the sail was still standing and the centre-boards were down; the wind caught the canvas, the water began to rush under the stern, and we shot smoothly southwards with a side wind. Robert gave vent to a sigh of relief. “Anything but wolves,” he said. I made Robert and Rehim Ali row to save time, and soon the two beasts were out of sight. “They will certainly gallop round the lake, they know quite well that we must land somewhere,” said Robert. He was quite right, the situation was exceedingly unpleasant; we had only a choice between the storm and the wolves. We could not depend on our people; they were evidently cut off from us by salt morasses, which it was dangerous to venture into. We would therefore try to reach a suitable point on the south shore before dark (Illustration 77).
The hours fled past, and the sun sank in glowing yellow behind the mountains. For two hours we held on our course towards Deasy’s camp, but when the beacon fires became more distinct in the gathering twilight we changed our direction and steered southwards to reach our people. The distance, however, was hopelessly long, and just from that direction the storm blew, and in the broken, freakish light of the moon the waves looked as weird as playing dolphins. Sometimes I was able to take some rapid soundings; they gave depths of 32 and 36 feet. Our fate was just as uncertain as on the former occasion on Lake Lighten; we steered for the shore, but did not know how far off it was. Rehim Ali judged from the length of the path of moonlight on the water that it was a long distance. Two more hours passed. I gave my orders to the oarsmen in English and Turki. We had now the waves on our quarter, and if we did not parry their rolling, foaming crests they would fill the boat and sink it; so we had to sail straight against them.