Harry Milvaine Part 21

Book 2--CHAPTER FOUR.

LIFE IN A GUNBOAT--THE CAPTAIN'S BIRTHDAY.

Mr Dewar had charge of the first cutter, Mr Mavers, sub-lieutenant, of the second, and Harry himself commanded the whaler.

These were all the boats told off for the fight, about five-and-thirty men all told.

Five-and-thirty men? Yes, but they were five-and-thirty broad-shouldered British blue-jackets, armed with cutla.s.s and revolver.

And what is it, pray, that blue-jackets will not dare, ay, and _do_ as well as dare?

Even Dr Scott and the other officers had left their swords behind them, preferring the ship's cutla.s.s.

Every man had stripped to the waist before starting, for the night was sultry and hot.

The boats were silently lowered before they came in sight of the dhow, therefore before the dhow could see the _Bunting_.

With m.u.f.fled oars, nearer and nearer they sweep to the spot from whence the sounds proceed.

The whaler, being lighter, well-manned and well-steered by Harry, took the lead.

The _Bunting_ came slowly on after the boats.

But behold! the latter are seen from the dhow's decks, and lights spring up at once, and a rattling volley flies harmlessly over the heads of our advancing heroes. At the same time it is evident that boarding-nets are being quickly placed along the bulwarks of the slaver.

In a few minutes the whaler is at the bows of the dhow. This was unprotected by netting, and low in the water, for the vessel was deep.

Harry was the first to spring on board, followed instantly by his fellows.

He speedily parried an ugly thrust made at his throat by a spear, and next moment his a.s.sailant fell on his face with a gash on his neck and his life's blood welling away. For a few seconds this part of the dhow bristled with spears, and one or two of Harry's men succ.u.mbed to the lunges and fell to the deck.

But the Arabs retreated before the charge, fighting for every inch of deck, however.

Meanwhile the cutters were boarding. They were cutters in more ways than one, for they had not only to defend themselves against spear-lunging, but to slash through the netting.

A bright white light now gleamed over the dhow's deck. The _Bunting_ was nearly alongside, and burning lights.

It was well this was so, for on the deck of that slave dhow stood fully seventy as brave Arabs as ever drew a sword or carried a spear.

They went down before our blue-jackets, nevertheless, in twos and threes. The modern colt is a glorious weapon when held in a cool hand and backed by a steady eye.

Their very numbers told against these Arabs, but they fought well and desperately, for they were fighting with the pirate-rope around their necks. Arab dhows who fire on our British cruisers are treated as pirates, and, when taken red-handed, have a short shrift and a long drop.

That they fought with determined courage cannot be gainsaid--gentlemen Arabs always do--but they have not the bull-dog pluck of our fellows.

They cannot hang on, so to speak; they lack what is technically called "stay." Nor were they fighting in a good cause, and they knew it.

They knew or felt that they could not, if killed, walk straight from that blood-slippery battle-deck into the paradise of Mahomed.

Add to this that their weapons were far inferior to ours. Their spears were easily shivered, and even their swords; while their pistols could scarcely be called arms of precision.

So after a brave but ineffectual attempt to stem the wild, stern rush of our British blue-jackets, they fell back towards the p.o.o.p, so huddled together that the fire of our men riddled two at a time. They finally sought refuge in the p.o.o.p saloon, and even down below among the remainder of those poor trembling slaves who had not been butchered or forced to walk the plank.

Many were driven overboard, or preferred the deadly plunge into the ocean to falling into the hands of the British.

The captain surrendered his sword, standing by the mainmast. He was a tall and somewhat swarthy Arab, and spoke good English.

"Slay me now, if so minded, you infidel dogs," he shouted, "or keep me to satiate your revenge?"

Meanwhile, up rose the moon--a vermilion moon--a moon that seemed to stain all the waves with long quivering ribbons of blood, and the shadows of the two ships were cast darkling on the water far to the west.

A wretched half-caste Arab was found skulking under the p.o.o.p, and dragged forth by one of the _Bunting's_ men. He had _not_ been in the fight, yet he had a most terrible appearance.

He was very black and ferocious-looking, dressed only in one white cotton garment, with a rope for a girdle, from which dangled an ugly knife.

This fiend in human form was dabbled in blood; his face, hands, bare arms, and all the front of his garment were wet with gore. He had been the butcher of the innocent slaves.

He was dragged forth and dragged forward, but suddenly, with an unearthly yell, he sprang from the sailor's grasp, and next moment had leapt into the sea.

He was watched for a few moments swimming quickly away from the ship, then a strange commotion was seen near him, and the wretch threw up his arms and disappeared.

He had been dragged under by the sharks.

It is through no love of the sensational I pen these lines, reader, nor describe the capture of this blood-stained dhow. The story is almost from the life, and I deem it not wrong that my young readers should know something of the horrors of the slave trade.

Two hundred living slaves were found in the hold of the dhow, many dead were among the living, and many dying. And it will never be known in this world how many poor creatures were butchered or thrown overboard to lighten the ship.

The vessel was condemned at Zanzibar, and taken away out to sea and set on fire. Nothing was taken out of her except a few shields and spears that the men got by way of curios. She was simply burned, and sank hissing and flaming beneath the waves.

The slaves were liberated. Well, even their liberty was something. But that would not restore them their far-off happy homes amid the wild and beautiful scenery in the African interior: no, nor restore them their friends and kindred. Henceforward they must languish in a foreign land.

"What became of the captain of the dhow?" I fancy I hear some of my readers ask. Have I not, I reply, given you horrors enough in this chapter? But, nevertheless, I will tell you. He and five others were hanged. This end was at all events less revolting than an Arab execution as sometimes carried out. Fancy five political offenders tied hand and foot, and placed on their backs all in a row in the prison yard, an Arab executioner with a sharp sword leisurely stepping from one to another and half-beheading them!

It was a very lovely morning. Harry came on the quarter-deck just as a great gun was fired from the bows of the _Bunting_; making every window in the front part of the town rattle, and multiplying its echo among the distant coral islands. That gun told the condemned men that their day had come.

"What a lovely morning!" said Harry to Mavers, who was leaning over the bows, looking seaward and eastward where the sun was silvering a broad belt of long rippling wavelets.

"Charming," replied Mavers; "but bother it all, Milvaine, old man, I fell asleep last night thinking about those poor beggars that have to die this morning."

"So did I," said Harry, "and I dreamt about them."

"You see," continued Mavers, "it is one thing dying sword in hand on a battle-deck, and another being coolly hanged. But notwithstanding, Milvaine, don't let us fall into the blues over the matter; the villains richly deserve their fate."

"Yes," he added, after a pause, "it is a lovely morning. What a beautiful world it would be if there was neither sin nor sorrow in it!"

The doctor joined them. He was a young man of a somewhat poetical temperament, curiously blended with an intense love for anatomy and post-mortems, and a very good fellow on the whole.

"Talking about the condemned criminals? Eh?" he said. Then he laughed such a happy laugh.

"I'm going to post-mortem them. Will you come and see the operation?"

"Horrible--no!"