Harry Milvaine: or, The Wanderings of a Wayward Boy

But after all a month or so more could make but little difference after so long a commission – they had been away from England now nearly five long years.

On the very next day, however, after the dinner-party, steam was got up, and the Bunting departed from Zanzibar.

How merrily the men worked now! How cheerfully they sang! Everybody seemed in better temper than his neighbour. For were they not, virtually speaking, homeward bound.

“If we do happen to come across another prize you know,” said Captain Wayland to Mr Dewar, “we won’t say no to her, will we?”

“That we won’t, sir,” was the laughing reply; “the more the merrier, and it won’t be my fault if a good outlook isn’t kept both by night and day.”

Sailors love the sea, and quite delight, as the old song tells us, in —

“A wet sheet and a flowing sail.”

But there are times when even a sailor may feel weary on the ocean. My experience leads me to believe that so long as a ship is positively doing something, and going somewhere in particular, Jack-a-tar is perfectly contented and happy. In such a case – a sailing ship on a long voyage, for example – if the wind blows dead ahead, dead in the good chip’s eye, Jack may feel thrown back a bit in his reckoning, but he eats and sleeps and doesn’t say much, he has got to work to windward, and this brings out all the craft’s good sailing capacity. If it blows a gale in a wrong direction – well, she is laid to, and however rough the weather be, Jack comforts himself and his mates with the assurance that it can’t go on blowing in the same direction for ever. Neither it does; and no sooner is the vessel lying her course again, with her stem cleaving through the blue water, than Jack begins to sing, like a blackbird just let loose from a pie.

If the ship gets caught in a tornado, then there is so much to do that there is really no time for grumbling.

But what Jack can not stand, with anything like equanimity, is inaction. Being in the doldrums, for instance, on or about the line.

“As idle as a painted shipUpon a painted ocean.”

In such a case Jack does growl, and, in my humble opinion, no one has a better right to do so.

The day after that joyful evening described in last chapter, when, by this time, the men had not only read their letters o’er and o’er, but had almost got them by heart, as the long row of white palatial-looking buildings that forms the frontage of that strange city, Zanzibar, was left behind, and the greenery of trees was presently lost to view, the men’s spirits grew buoyant indeed. For fires were now ordered to be banked, as a breeze sprang up – quickly, too, as breezes are wont to in these latitudes.

Sail was set, pretty close hauled she had to be, but away went the Bunting nevertheless, cutting through the bright sparkling water like a knife. It was a wind to make the heart of a true sailor jump for joy. It cut the pyramidal heads of the waves off, and the spray so formed glittered in the sunshine like showers of molten silver; it sang rather than roared through the rigging, it kept the vane extended like a railway signal arm, it kept the pennant in a constant state of flutter, it kept the sails all full and free from wrinkle, and every sheet as taut as a fiddle-string. It was a “ripping” breeze, a happy bracing breeze, a breeze that gave one strength of nerve and muscle, and light and joy of mind.

The officers were all on deck, from the captain to the clerk, walking rapidly up and down as if doing a record or winning a bet.

The breeze continued for days till, indeed, the ship was degrees north of the line.

But one lovely night, with a clear sky and the moon shimmering on the wave crests, and dyeing the water with streaks like molten gold, it fell calm. The wind went away as suddenly almost as it had sprung up.

There were men in the chains. Every now and then their voices rang up from near the bows in that mournful kind of chant that none can forget who have ever heard it “And a half fi – ive.”

“And a quarter less six.” And so on. They had just come over an ugly bit of shoal water, and from the mast-head, where Harry himself – it was his watch – had gone to view the situation, he could notice that there were patches of the same kind of coral shoals almost everywhere around.

It was an ugly situation. He could not help wishing that the wind had continued but a little longer, or that it would again spring up from the same quarter. But there were the sails flapping sometimes in one direction, sometimes in another, and taking desperate pulls and jerks at the sheets, causing the Bunting to kick about in a manner that was far from agreeable.

Harry was just about to order sail to be taken in, for he knew not in what direction the wind would come from.

He had already taken the liberty of rousing the sleeping engineer, and telling him to get up steam with all possible speed.

“Hands, shorten sail!”

“Ready about.”

For the wind seemed now commencing to blow from off the land.

He ran up to the maintop once more to take a view of the situation.

Heavens! what was coming yonder? Away on the horizon a long bank of snow-white fog or foam, high as poplar trees it seemed; and as he listened for a moment spellbound, he could hear a distant roar like that which breakers make on a sandy beach on a windless, frosty night in winter, only more continuous. It was the scourge of the Indian Ocean. It was the dreaded white squall.

It came on in foam and fury, lightning even playing athwart and behind it.

“All hands on deck!” roared Harry. In his excitement he hardly knew what he was saying. “Stand by to let go everything! Hard a port!”

Everything indeed! Hardly had he spoken ere the squall was on them, the wind roaring like a den of wild beasts, the sea around them like a maelstrom, ropes snapped like worsted threads, sails in ribbons, and rattling like platoon fire, blocks adrift, sheets streaming like pennants, and the canvas that held out-bellying to the dreadful blast and carrying the vessel astern at the rate of knots.

Caught aback in a white squall! no situation can be more dangerous or appalling! Well for them was it that the Bunting was long and low and rakish; a brig would have gone down stern first, giving those on board hardly time to utter a prayer.

For five long minutes astern she sped. Two men were knocked down dangerously wounded, and washed into the lee scuppers, where they would have been drowned, but for the almost superhuman exertions of the surgeon and steward.

Five long minutes, but see, good seamanship has triumphed! She is round at last, all sail off that could be got off. She is scudding almost under bare poles – scudding whither?

Scudding straight apparently to destruction. Through the mist and the rain that swallows the moonlight, they cannot make out a reef that lies right ahead of them, till she is on it, till she rasps and bumps, till every man is thrown flat on deck, and the man pitched over the wheel.

It is all up with the Bunting!

Ah! many a half-despairing prayer went heavenward then, many a half-smothered cry for mercy from Him to whom all things are possible, and who holds the sea in the hollow of His hand.

Bending over his bleeding patients down below in the steerage, the doctor never ceases his work, albeit the ship has struck, and the seas are making a clear breach over, albeit he is up to the ankles in the water that is pouring down green through the hatchway.

The steward is frantic.

Little Raggy in the captain’s cabin, to whom Harry himself had taken pains to teach the things of a better life and a better world, is on his knees.

“O! big Fader in heaven,” he is saying, “don’t let de ship sinkee for true. Dis chile no want to die to-night. De waves make plenty much bobbery, de masts dey break and fall. Take us out ob de gulp (gulph). Lor, take us out ob de gulp, and save us for true.”

It is all up with the Bunting, is it?

No, for even now from away to windward yonder, unseen by those on board, comes the bore, the hurricane wave. High as houses is it, fleet almost as the wind itself, onward it rolls, downward it comes; and now it is on the reef, it lifts the ship aloft as gently, as easily as a mother lifts her baby and bears her away to safety.

Almost immediately afterwards the fury of the squall is completely spent, the waves no longer break on board, nor the foam and the froth, and the spume. Men can see each other now, and hear each other talk, and orders are given by the captain himself to cut away the wreck, for the foremast has gone five feet above the board.

Half an hour afterwards steam was up, and all was still around the ship, while in the sky calmly shone the moon and stars. But a narrow escape indeed it had been for the good little vessel and the gallant crew that were in her. Though not scathless, the ship had escaped destruction on the reef in that terrible hurricane-squall.

“If ever,” said Captain Wayland, solemnly, “we have had cause for thankfulness to that great Being who rules on earth and sea, it is this night.”

The captain was standing near the wheel with uncovered head and upturned gaze, the soft light of the moon falling on his face.

There was something very beautiful in this simple, silent, thankful adoration; both the doctor and Dewar, who were standing not far off, felt its influence. Ay, and rough old sailors, who had weathered many a storm and braved many a danger, bared their heads even as the captain did, and breathed that little word that means so much – “Amen?”

The loss of her foremast did not improve the appearance of the Bunting, but as they would now complete the voyage under steam, and repair damages at Calcutta, it did not matter very much.

She was kept more in towards the low sandy coast, for north here never a tree or shrub may be seen, while away down south of the line the ocean is edged with a cloudland of green, the leafy mangroves growing on the beach – yes, and in the water itself.

Low sandy hills, and mountains and rocks beyond. Sometimes they come in sight of a squalid Somali-Arab village, but there was no inducement to land.

But see, what is that stealing out round the point? A dhow, and a very large one; a two-masted vessel.

She notices the Bunting as soon as they notice her, and immediately puts about and stands away northward before the breeze.

This is suspicious, and the Bunting gives chase. The dhow has a four miles’ start and goes swinging along at a wonderful rate.

“Go ahead at full speed,” is the order.

The Bunting is gaining on the dhow, but in another hour it will be dark.

Mr Dewar slips slyly down below. He goes to the store-room, and a few minutes afterwards he appears at the engine-room door, bearing in his arms half a side of fat bacon.

He winks to the engineer. The latter cuts off a huge junk and sticks it in the fire.

“If you’d like Raggy to come and sit on the safety valve,” says Mr Dewar, “I’ll send him.”

The engineer laughs heartily at the idea, and answers —

“The fat’ll do the job,” Mr Dewar, “without poor Raggy.”

So it does, and just as the sun is dropping like a red-hot cannon-ball into the sea, and turning the waves to blood, the first shot goes roaring through the rigging of that doomed dhow.

Another and another follow, still she cracks on. Then a shell or two are fired and burst right over her.

The Arabs cannot stand that. They lower sails at once.

But behold! almost at the same moment a boat leaves the dhow, and impelled by sturdy arms goes bounding away shoreward.

“Ah!” says Captain Wayland, “the Arabs won’t stop to reckon with us, and they will soon be where we can’t follow them.”

“Never mind,” replies Mr Dewar, laughing, “we’ll have the prize.”

“And, sir,” he adds, “it is all owing to a bit of fat.”

“All through what, Mr Dewar?”

“A bit of fat, sir. I’ll tell you again, and beg forgiveness in due form.”

The saloon of this huge dhow was furnished with truly oriental magnificence.

Lamps, mirrors, carpets, curtains, ottomans, and bijouterie, all in taste, all luxurious in the extreme.

The hold was filled to the hatches with moaning, pining slaves.

Hardly was there enough rice on board her to keep them alive for even a three weeks’ voyage, and scarcely water enough to keep them out of agony for a week.

But all this was changed now. The poor creatures were had up in batches, their irons were knocked off, they were washed and fed. Finally, everything was made clean and comfortable for them below, and when all was done that could be done, a prize crew was put on board, under the command of Harry Milvaine, and the dhow and the Bunting parted company with three ringing cheers three times repeated.

The gunboat steamed away north and by east, while the dhow spread her great wings to the breeze and went tacking away for Zanzibar.

Just two months after this, the Bunting was nearing Symon’s Town, all having gone as merrily with her, since leaving Calcutta, as marriage bells. Dr Scott and Dewar were chaffing each other, as they very frequently did.

The doctor had a long string floating overboard from the stern, and every now and then he caught and hauled on board a Cape pigeon, which he had managed by skilful manoeuvring to entangle with his tackle.

He had them running about the deck to the number of twenty or more.

“What are you going to do with all these birds?” asked Dewar. “You silly old Sawbones!”

“I’m merely catching them for sport, you mouldy old logarithm,” replied Scott. “I’ll let them off again presently, that will be more sport.”

“Strange, isn’t it, my dear Dr Fungus,” said Dewar, “that they can’t fly away after they once alight on deck?”

“Not at all,” returned the surgeon, “not at all strange, Mr Five-knots-an-hour; the explanation is simple. They are attacked by mal de mer– seasickness, you know – ”

“Yes, yes, I know that much French, Mr Sawbones.”

“Well, old Binnacle-lamp, I’m glad you do know something. The birds get seasick and can’t fly, and don’t care much what becomes of themselves.”

“Humph!” said Mr Dewar, walking away laughing. “Very little is fun to fools – beg pardon, doctor, I mean to foolosophers.”

In another twenty-four hours the saucy little Bunting was lying safely at anchor in Symon’s Bay. And what a lovely place is this same bay with its surrounding scenery! Oh! the beauty, the summer beauty, the spring and autumn beauty of those grand old hills that mirror their purple heath-clad heads in the placid waters of that enchanting bay! How gorgeous the flowers that blaze on its trees, how golden the sands on which the waves break in streaks of snowy foam! Its very rocks are tinted, and bronzed with the sunshine of ages, even its most barren spots, where, high up among the mountains, the soil peeps through, are rich in brooms and lichen-grey, for Time himself has been the artist here.

Captain Wayland had half, or nearly wholly expected to find Midshipman Milvaine here waiting for him. He was quite uneasy when a steamer straight from Zanzibar and Seychelles came in, and reported that no slave dhow with a prize crew had been seen at the former town.

The Bunting lay at Symon’s Bay a fortnight, and during that time, first a French man-o’-war, and next an English trading steamer arrived from Zanzibar straight away. But still no tidings of the missing dhow.

The Bunting then bore up for home, arriving in good time in Plymouth Sound, duly reported herself, and in less than a week was paid off.

Captain Wayland took the pains to go all the way to the Highlands of Scotland to report correctly the story of the dhow.

He was most hospitably received, and did not get away for nearly three weeks.

Both Harry’s parents were plunged into grief at the captain’s tidings, but his reason for coming north was to make the best of matters that he could, and he left them at last resigned and hopeful, Harry’s mother especially assuring him that she felt certain her son would turn up again safely and soon.

But alas! and alas! weeks flew by, and months passed into a year, and a year into long years, but no tidings ever were received of that lost dhow and her unhappy crew.

Then hope died out of even the mother’s heart, and she even began to look old, and grow grey under the pressure of her woeful grief.

Book Three – Chapter One.

Alone in the Wilderness.

’Tis Justice, not Revenge

“Call it not revenge, my brother; say it is but an act of justice, stern justice, and I am with you.”

“Allah is great, Allah is good,” replied the Arab whom his companion had addressed as brother.

They were both talking in their own language, a language at once so forcible and flowery, that all attempts to render it into English ends but in a poverty-stricken paraphrase.

“Yes, Allah is good.”

The difference between the two speakers was very remarkable. They were brothers only by courtesy.

One sat on the edge of a kind of wooden sofa or dais; in front of him was a small table of Hindoo manufacture, on which there stood a brown earthenware water chatty, some glasses, and a bottle of sherbet2. He was fair in skin, delicate in complexion, with a mild and almost benevolent aspect. He was unarmed, and though he wore the usual dress of an Arab gentleman, over all he wore a cloak of green camel’s hair, probably denoting him to be a scion of the great prophet.

The other Arab was tall, stately, swarthy, nay, but almost black. He was armed cap-a-pie, and ever as he spoke he strode rapidly up and down the floor of the room. A large apartment it was, in an upper room of a great square flat-roofed house in Brava, a village or town close by the sea, and some distance north of the line.

The room had no signs of luxury or even comfort about it, and no more furniture than a gaol. The walls were of clay, and unadorned except by creeping lizards; the one little window looked out towards the ocean, and a long reef of rocks that lay like a gigantic breakwater – from north to south – about a mile out.

There were a few clouds in the sky that looked like gigantic ostrich feathers; now and then these would flit across the sun, casting patches of green shade on the otherwise blue sea.

That a breeze was blowing, or had been blowing far away out, and far away eastwards, was evident enough, even on the beach at Brava, for here the breakers were as tall as trees, they came curling onwards with the fleetness of desert horses, with the strength of a thousand cataracts, then broke on the sands with a noise like thunder, retreating again in a chaos of brown froth, with a hurtling, sucking sound, as if they would fain draw the very town itself into their grasp.

On the beach itself “the boys” were at play.

What was their play? What was their game? Was it football, tip-cat, or modest marbles? Not quite.

Just behold them in imagination, as I have done in reality. There cannot be fewer than a hundred of those boys scattered in groups all along the shore. Tall, lank, sharp-featured lads of all ages, from twelve to twenty. Naked they are except for the smallest of cummerbunds, and the sun is glittering on their well-greased skins.

Black? No, not quite black, rather of the colour of tarnished copper, their mouths are small and cruel-like, their features sharp and well-defined, their eyes twinkling with ill-concealed cunning and malice, and their heads surmounted by great hassocks of hair, in which clay has been mixed to make it stand well out. They use clay for the same purpose as ladies of civilisation used the perfumed bandoline.

They are Somali Indians, of the lowest caste, if, indeed, there be any caste among them.

Here are two engaged in what seems a mortal combat, a deadly duel. They are standing confronting each other at a distance of some twenty or thirty paces. Each is armed with a little round shield, made from the hardened skin of a water buffalo’s hump, and studded with big brass nails. Each holds in his hand a long and deadly-looking spear – not a broad-bladed one, this latter being only used for hand-to-hand fighting. The game is that each may hurl his spear at the other when and how he pleases. The other has either to dodge it or receive its point on the small strong shield. The quick, rapid, snake-like movements of the body, and the strange but graceful attitudes assumed, are truly wonderful to behold. The agility of these Indians, their skill in parrying and strength in hurling these deadly spears if once witnessed can never be forgotten.

But wounds are not unfrequent, and on rare occasions a spear may pierce the body of a friendly antagonist. Blood is staunched by styptics, which Arab merchants vend them, and if a lad is slain, he does not obtain the comfort of a coroner’s inquest, he is simply buried in the sand, or even exposed on the beach itself. Then at night wild dogs come and quarrel and fight over his remains, crabs creep up out of the sea to the awful feast, and what the dogs and crabs leave is speedily disposed of by colonies of ants. So the bones are picked clean enough; for a time they lie bleaching in the sun, till the tide comes up and gradually buries them in the soft sand.

Look again. Here are some half a dozen younger boys – guiltless of clothing of any sort; they have been playing in the sea, dashing in under the breakers with the speed of eels, and coming up far beyond in smooth but rolling water, disappearing under the surface, and remaining under for long minutes, bobbing up again, riding in upon the very curling sharp crests of the breakers themselves, and being floated and rolled up upon the beach in the smother of surf and spume, laughing, yelling, and turning head over heels with delight. And now they are fighting with bones, or pelting each other with them, laughing and yelling as loudly as ever.

Just one other tableau. Two tall youths engaged in a frenzied combat with Somali swords, terrible-looking long knives, as broad almost as a spade. The swiftness of stroke and parry or shield is truly marvellous; but at last, as if by a single accord, the awful knives and eke the shields are cast aside, and they clutch each other with deadly grip and fierce: they fight for the throats. See, they are both rolling on the sand, but one at last is victorious, his talonlike, long bony fingers have closed upon his adversary’s neck. He beats his head against the sand, till eyeballs and tongue protrude, then he slowly rises, and retreats a pace or two, still with his eyes on his supposed foe. He feels backwards with his hand till he touches a sword, he seizes it, and with a yell springs forward again and stands triumphant over his fallen fellow, the deadly knife just grazing his neck. Will he strike? No, for here the combat ends. By and by the vanquished Indian lad will gasp and sigh, and presently rise, slowly and feebly, and creeping seawards, refresh himself with a dip beneath the waves.

But to return to the room where the Arabs are.

“They do tell me at Zanzibar,” said the dark and soldier Arab, “that in Europe they place machines beneath the waves, which, if a ship do but strike, she is blown to death and destruction. Could we not import these? Money would not be wanting, and you, Mahmoud, have the key to good foreign society. Oh I fancy the glory of blowing up a British cruiser – !”

“Talk not thus,” was the reply, “nor let us even dream of forsaking the form in which our fathers fought. With sword and spear, and Allah’s help, they conquered the North, they overran the West, and laid even the might of Spain in the dust. Let us bide our time. Long has it been dark, but the dawn will come. A prophet will arise. He will conquer the world in Allah’s name, and every man, woman, or child who adopts not the true faith will be put to the knife.”

“Oh! these will be glorious times, Mahmoud.”

“Gloat not over them, Suliemon. It is still with the spirit of revenge you speak. Think of future wars and executions as but necessities, the darkness of the inevitable clouds, that will be dispelled by the glorious rising sun of peace and joy.”

“Revenge,” muttered Suliemon, through his set teeth. “Curb not my feelings, Mahmoud. They are just. Think what I have suffered from British cruisers. Thrice have they run me on shore, twice have they burned my dhows. To-day I would be wealthy but for them. Curses on them, I say!” he thundered, half drawing his sword, and sending it ringing back into the sheath again.