In the Wilds of Africa

by William Henry Giles Kingston

Several of the men hastened to obey him. The boat was cleared, and two of the crew jumping into her, she was lowered. Just, however, as she reached the water, before the others could follow, another far heavier roller came gliding towards us. “In board for your lives, lads!” I cried out, but the men either did not hear me or despised the warning. The wave struck the boat and dashed it with tremendous force against the counter, sweeping them off towards the shore. They held out their hands imploring assistance.

“If we get the starboard-quarter boat lowered we shall be in time to save them, Mr Kydd,” I said; and without waiting for his reply, Barker and I, with Jack Handspike, assisted by some of the gentlemen, lowered the boat. Scarcely, however, had we seized the oars, when we heard a loud shriek, and one of the poor fellows disappeared beneath the surface. A shark had taken him. The other, who was at a little distance, saw his companion’s fate, and cried out to us to make haste. We pulled away as hard as we could lay our backs to the oars, old Barker steering. But just before we reached the man, his arms were thrown up, and down he sank. He, too, had become the prey of one of the rapacious monsters of the deep. We now returned on board, the boat remaining perfectly quit on the starboard side. No attempt had been made in the meantime to sound round the vessel. I offered to do it.

“I have made up my mind to haul her off astern,” answered Kydd. “We will carry a kedge out in that direction.”

“As you please,” I said. “It may be right, but it may be the wrong way.”

“It is my way, at all events,” was the petulant reply.

It was necessary to get the long-boat into the water to carry out the kedge. Before this could be done, she had to be cleared of all sorts of articles stowed in her. It took us some time. The fate of their companions had thrown a damp over the spirits of the men, and they did not work with their ordinary activity. I could not help looking out seaward now and then, thinking that heavier rollers might be coming in, when our position would be truly dangerous. Where we were all this time we could not ascertain,—whether we were on a sandbank at a distance from the coast, or on the coast itself. In either case the danger was great. At last we got a kedge out right astern, and the crew manned the capstan. They worked away for some time. It seemed to me that the anchor was coming home. I was sure of it indeed, for not an inch did the vessel move. I meantime had got hold of the hand-lead, and hove it ahead. There was ample water there, at all events, for the brig to float. I then ran with it aft and dropped it over the taffrail. The water was evidently much shallower at that end of the ship. We had been working away all that time, therefore, to haul her still faster on to the bank. I was determined not to stand this any longer.

“Perhaps, Mr Kydd, you will try the depth of the water astern as well as ahead,” I said; “and it strikes me that if we were to attempt to haul her off the other way, we might have a better chance of success.”

“Leave that to me,” he answered in the same tone as before.

“Round with the pauls, my lads,” he sung out. “We will soon have her afloat.”

“I am not going to step another foot round the capstan without I know that we are trying to haul off the right way,” said Barker, who overheard what I had said.