Читать книгу Idylls of the Sea, and Other Marine Sketches - Frank Thomas Bullen - Страница 9

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Ras Nungwe stood out boldly against the deep azure of the midnight sky, its rugged outlines softened and etherealised by the flood of molten light flowing from the rising moon. Within the velvety shadow which extended far to the north-westward from that bold headland lay our brig, a lonely, almost pathetic object, with sails all vertical in the utter calm, and taut as boards with the drenching dew. The royals, peering above the enwrapping dark, gleamed silvery-white where the unintercepted moon-rays touched them, crowning the homely craft with a radiant halo of silver sheen. I stood alone in the silent gloom of the deck completely absorbed in the solemn beauty of the scene, and utterly unmindful for the present of the severe stress of our encompassing emergencies. After the fierce heat of the glowing day the caressing coolness of the hour was a pure delight, for, although not a breath lifted the down fringing the dog-vane suspended just above my head, there was a freshness in the atmosphere which belied the thermometer. A sound rippled along through the quiet, sending a responsive thrill over my scalp, as of an attuned nerve. Mellow and sustained, the clear call of the Muezzin from the minaret in Zanzibar Town had travelled this great distance, bearing its tremendous challenge, “Allah ho Akbar!” Dropping all consonants on its way, only the open vowels persisted; but even so, none could mistake the words. Obedient even in sleep to the call of his faith, Sa’adi, our Suahili steward, turned upon his mat near the mainmast, and rising to his feet, with hands outstretched before him, began in low gutturals the majestic ritual of the Mussulmani, “Bismillahi ’Rahmanni ’Raheem.”

Meanwhile, the swelling tide of moonlight had invaded the sombre area wherein we lay until the whole of the vessel was shining in purest light. Every rope, spar, and sail, shimmering in that wonderful luminosity, looked unearthly, a phantom that the returning sun would dissipate with his workaday beams. Here and there on the deck, wherever a little shelter could be found from the soaking dew, lay figures in many an uneasy attitude, brokenly slumbering and muttering through the helpless delirium of fever; for all hands save the second mate, myself, two Malagasy, and two Arabs, were desperately sick. The poisonous malaria which crawls stealthily to the Zanzibar anchorage out of the foulness of that most filthy town, aided by the treacherous exhalations from the soil everywhere, had stricken them down, and their only hope of recovery seemed to lie in escape from that dangerous vicinity. Therefore, but principally because of our affection for our suffering skipper, with his wife and child all tossing in delirium, we had dared to get under weigh and proceed to sea in such a plight. But now, relieved by my careful brother officer, I went below, knowing from painful experience that, stifling as the air might be down in my berth, it was far safer than on deck.

I awoke streaming as if in the sudatorium of a Hammam, and after a careful rub down and complete change of rig, returned on deck to relieve my faithful partner. A small air from the African land was just lifting the lighter sails, and making a pleasant little ripple warble alongside. One of the Malagasy, a docile Betsimasaraka, came to the wheel, necessitating a careful watch over his well-meant but generally misdirected efforts on my part, since the duty was as yet strange to him. Still, I had leisure to take my fill of admiring wonder at the completely changed scene. We now sailed on a sea of silver, the moon being almost vertical. Out of that radiant level rose the dark battlements of the great island, its clear-cut outlines in sharp contrast to the pellucid sky. Far ahead loomed the misty mass of Pemba, and on the left a long, low streak of gloom, lit up here and there by gleaming stretches of shining sand, showed the proximity of Africa, ancient land of mystery. A subdued murmur, like that of a shell, but with an occasional swell therein, was rather suggested than heard, so unceasing was its deep monotone, the unresting roll of the Indian Ocean upon those lonely shores. At no great distance from us a snowy feather occasionally showed itself where the slumbering sea was momentarily ruffled in its regular roll by an outlying spur of coral close to the surface.

In striking contrast to those bright gleams the black blotch made by some toiling fisherman’s small canoe showed up against the bright waters like a patch of rock. Presently, out of the misty environs of a small island to leeward, came the faint but unmistakable sound of oars strenuously worked. The night-glasses revealed the sinister shape of a dhow heading towards us, a foam-wreath sparkling at her bows as if she was going at a great rate. “More slaves,” I thought bitterly, for night navigation is not favoured by Arabs except upon excursions that do not bear the light well. Fervently I hoped that some of my countrymen were lying hidden near enough to stop those incarnate devils on their infernal errand. Forgetting all else, I strained my eyes through the glasses at the swiftly approaching dhow. The course he was making would bring him closely past us, and eventually land him at the extreme northern end of Zanzibar Island.

Hoping against hope, I swept the horizon earnestly with the glasses, my gaze lingering for long in the direction where lay the guardship with five hundred eager fellows on board ready to take any risk to stop such a villainous craft as was now befouling the seascape, did they but know of her presence. I had nearly given up all hope, when to my intense delight I saw coming in our direction from Pemba a tiny cloud of black smoke. Hardly knowing how to contain myself, I rushed below, found a rocket, and leaning it against the rail, touched it off. With a hiss like a bursting steampipe it soared aloft, scaring my poor Malagasy helmsman almost into a fit, and bursting at a splendid height into five blazing stars, an imperative call to any cruising naval launch near. The flying slaver never swerved or halted. On the contrary, she was evidently adding to her speed. But to my satisfaction the small black thread of smoke ahead now showed a lurid glow running through it. Doubtless they had grasped the intention of my signal, and were making their little craft do her best to obey it. Within a cable’s length the dhow passed our stern, her straining crew yelling curses at us in mellifluous Suahili. Pitiful, indeed, would have been our case could those merciless flesh-hunters then have had their will of us. But with double-banked sweeps they strove to gain the shore, scenting the pursuers they could not see. Nearer drew the trailing smoke-wreath, until beneath it I could discern the slender shape of a steam-launch. And then I rejoiced to see her change her course so as to cut off the dhow ere she could reach the objective her crew were straining every sinew to attain. Breathlessly I watched the manœuvre, disregarding the unwelcome failure of the gentle breeze that again left us motionless. At last there was a flash from the launch’s bow, followed by a sullen boom, the sweetest sound imaginable to my hungry ears. Another flash, and then the bright foam faded from the dhow’s sides, showing that they had ceased their efforts to escape. A short silence ensued, followed by a faint rattle of small-arm fire.

Although the grey light of dawn was now displacing the almost blue-black of the night sky, the two craft were so far away that I could not see how my brethren were faring, but almost unconsciously I breathed a prayer for their success. Then, in gorgeous array of green and purple and gold, conquering daylight rushed across the sky, paling the bright moon and quenching the sweet stars in the ineffable glory of a new morn. All the beauties of the adjacent shores sprang into sight, completing the splendid picture. But, best of all, over that devilish dhow now floated the white-and-red folds of St. George’s Cross, whose appearance anywhere always gives an Englishman an accelerated heart-beat. How much more, then, when it is seen sheltering those who were lost, helpless, and hopeless slaves. Before long the dhow was taken in tow by the launch, which headed towards us. I ran up the old Red Ensign, dipping it gaily in salute to the victors in so noble a cause. As she passed close under our stern the officer in charge, waving his cap, shouted: “Many thanks, sir, for your signal. We should certainly have missed the prize without it. She has one hundred and fifteen slaves on board, all ages and both sexes, packed like sardines in a tin. It is a splendid haul. Good-bye, sir, and a most pleasant passage to you.” I would have answered him in many words, but something choked my utterance, and I could only wave my hand in hearty farewell. I could not help a feeling of satisfaction as I noticed several prone figures on the dhow’s deck with crimson stains on their dingy white garments. There are times when the Mosaic law seems to all of us the only satisfying adjustment of rewards.

Of the long days that followed before we finally cleared those sultry shores, days of anxiety and nights of constant care, much could be told did space permit. One by one the haggard, quinine-saturated invalids resumed their watch, wistfully seeking to help, but so weak that their faltering steps failed them oftentimes. But gradually they gathered strength, until by the time that Zanzibar had faded below the blue horizon every one mustered at watch—changing, and our little company remained complete.