The “Halcyon.”The coast of Africa, as seen from the sea, is never very prepossessing; and the sandy spit of land, with the equally sandy bar, which obstructs the entrance to the Zambesi at Quillimane, is no exception to the rule, while the banks of the river are low and flat, dotted here and there with tall cocoa-palms, and haunted by alligators. The town itself, or rather village, for it can hardly boast of any more sounding name, consists of a few better-class houses, one of which was owned by Dom Assevédo, and a number of half-ruinous huts and sheds. The anchorage is unsafe, and often untenable, while the low-lying land is a hot-bed of fever. Outside the bar, her two anchors down, the blue peter at her fore, and the English Union Jack floating at her gaff, rode the brig “Halcyon.” She was a rakish-looking craft, her long low black hull rising on the waves, and showing from time to time her bright clean copper as she rolled. Her masts raked slightly off, her sharp bows and sides round as an apple, told the seaman at once that she must be a dry ship, and her breadth of beam, if needed, attested the fact. Every bit of brass work on board was as usual rubbed bright as gold, every rope was carefully coiled down, and her decks white as snow. The “Halcyon” would not, in fact, as she rode to her anchors off the bar at Quillimane, have disgraced herself, even had she been, as she once was, her Majesty’s gun brig “Torch.”Sold out at a time when the system of steam was rapidly changing the aspect of the navy, the “Torch” was nearly new. Bought by a Liverpool firm, she had been thoroughly overhauled and fitted out for a three years’ cruise on the African coast, trading in ivory, gold dust, and ostrich feathers.Captain Weber, an old sailor of thirty years’ standing, commanded and partly owned her, and on such a voyage of course great latitude had been allowed him.His three years’ trading voyage ended, and bound for the Cape, but intending once more to touch at Delagoa Bay, he had been induced to delay his departure in consideration of the handsome sum offered by the Portuguese nobleman returning from his tour of inspection of the stations on the Zambesi.Captain Weber, as has been already mentioned, was a middle-sized stout built man, with a reddish mahogany-coloured face, and long grey hair. He was proud of his brig, lived for her, and believed in her capabilities to an unlimited extent. His first-mate, Thomas Blount, was a young man for his station in life, rather tall, and, as we have already seen, fond of dress. The two were leaning over the bulwarks, looking towards the land, one afternoon, three days after the events just narrated. The crew, which was a strong one, consisting of twenty hands, all told, were between decks.“Our passengers should arrive this afternoon. Dom Assevédo’s messenger said so, did he not, Captain Weber?”“Yes, and that haze to the southward and eastward tells of a blow. It will be a foul wind for us. We must make sail before sunset, Mr Blount.”“I think,” remarked the younger man, “I see a boat crossing the bar, there, right over that Madras fellow’s stern.”“Well, I hope it may be them. We have more fever on board than I care to see, and I hate this hot, unhealthy hole. Rouse up the watch, Mr Blount, and heave short at once.”“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the mate, touching his cap, round which ran a narrow strip of gold lace, and moving away.The captain remained where he was, watching the black specks, for there were three of them, rising and falling on the waves outside Quillimane bar. The decks of the brig were no longer deserted, and the shipping of the capstan bars told that the orders just given were being carried out.“Bring to, starboard cable,” called the first officer from the quarter-deck.“Ay, ay, sir,” was the ready response, for the seamen were tired of riding at anchor off the bar, and the click of the capstan, as they stamped round to a merry tune of the flute, was music to officers and men alike.“Up and down, sir,” was the cry of the second mate, who on the forecastle was superintending the duty of heaving up the anchor, and which term meant that the brig was right over her anchor.“Heaving away, sir,” came again the cheering shout, as the anchor left the ground and the men strained every nerve to run the heavy mass up to the brig’s bows.The flute rang out a merrier tune, round and round went the capstan bars, then came the second officer’s loud shout of “Heaving in sight, sir,” as the men suddenly stopped in their merry round.“Cat and fish the anchor, Mr Lowe. Bring to the port cable. Heave short,” were the brief words of command from the quarter-deck.“All ready with the cat, sir,” was the responsive shout, soon followed by the customary words, “All ready with the fish, sir,” while the men, the starboard anchor being got on board, duly secured, or, in more nautical terms, catted and fished, clapped on the port or remaining anchor, which now alone held the brig, gently rolling to the swell, and that in its turn being soon up and down, Mr Blount reported to his superior officer.“Do you make out the boats, sir?” he added, as Captain Weber still remained looking towards shore.“Ay, ay,” replied the seaman. “There’s Dom Assevédo’s barge, the lubberly Portuguese blowing and puffing like grampus at their oars.”“Rig out a tackle from the main yard. We shall have to hoist the lady in, and perhaps the Dom too, like a bale of cotton.”“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the mate.“Make sail, Mr Blount; brace up the headyards. Let me know when you are ready.”Ten minutes later the passengers were on board, and Dom Assevédo’s barge veered astern.“It’s rather hard I can’t speak to my lady passenger,” said Weber, as he went down below with the party.“Tell him I can understand English, though I am afraid to speak it,” said Isabel in French to Hughes, who was by her side.“Ay, ay, my pretty one, we’ll soon take the shame-faced-ness out of you; nothing like blue water for doing that. Well, you tell the Dom that I’ll send all his traps below. Senhor Assevédo, I can’t give you much law,” said the old seaman, in his rough hearty tones, as he turned to return to his post. “Steward, show the lady her berth. Look alive, man,” he continued, calling down the hatchway.The brig was now riding at single anchor, the headyards braced up one way, her afteryards the other, her sails flapping heavily.“Heave away, my lads, heave away with a will,” shouted Weber, the moment his foot touched the quarter-deck, and the remaining anchor was soon hove up, and properly stowed away on board. “Brace round the headyards. Let fall the fore course. Take a pull at the bowlines, Mr Blount. Touch her with the wheel, Adams, she will come up a couple of points yet,” were the rapid words of command, and the “Halcyon” moved through the water on a taut bowline, heading nearly her course.“A pleasant voyage to you,” said Dom Assevédo, as he bent over Isabel’s hand in the cabin.“Below there!” came in the captain’s rough tones, “tell the Senhor Assevédo that if he don’t want to see the Cape, he had better get on board his barge. The tow-rope won’t hold on long, I’m thinking.”Heartily shaking hands with all, the Portuguese gentleman, whose name and kindly nature are well known to men of every nation trading on the Zambesi, stepped over the side, the boat’s painter was cast off, a last good bye shouted in Weber’s stentorian voice, and the “Halcyon,” with all sail set, to her royals, was soon standing off the bar, the bubbles flying past her rounded counter, as she slipped through the water at the rate of sonde six knots an hour.Towards sunset the wind fell, and the brig began to lose her way. The stars came out shining through a thin haze, and sail after sail flapped against the masts, filling for a moment, then collapsing again, until soon the “Halcyon” lay rolling on the gentle swell, her cordage rattling, her blocks and tackles striking against her spars and rigging, her hull groaning, and her sails perfectly useless, not having even steerage way.Leaning over the bulwarks, and looking towards the land, the faint outline of which could still be discovered about ten miles distant, Hughes was conversing with the captain.“You think, then, we shall have wind?” he asked.“I am sure of it,” replied Weber; “look at the double halo round the moon, look at the sickly, watery appearance of the clouds, look at that fog-bank away to the southward. We shall have plenty of wind before morning.”“And from what direction?”“Dead against us,” replied the seaman; “we want to run to the south, and the wind will blow from that quarter.”“You have a beautiful craft, Captain Weber, and one I know can show weatherly qualities.”“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the captain, slapping his hand down on the bulwark, “I love every stick the jade carries, every rope-yarn aboard of her; while I am at sea, she is wife and children to me. Do you hear the wind sighing aloft? You would do well to persuade the lady to turn in.”Wyzinski, Dom Francisco, and Isabel were walking on the quarter-deck deeply engaged in conversation, and enjoying the freshness of the night.“I did not think I should ever look back to the Zambesi with pleasure,” said Isabel, as Hughes joined the party; “but really, the unostentatious hospitality we received from Senhor Assevédo will always be remembered by me. It is a magnificent river, and I am sure must be fully half a mile wide in some parts. The coolness of the air, too; I never thought to see European vegetables, such as peas and cabbages, growing side by side with the mango and banana.”“Ah, with its plains of wild cotton, which no one takes the trouble to cultivate, its sugar-canes, indigo, and droves of splendid cattle, the country bordering on the Zambesi might be a very rich one,” said Wyzinski.“Which, otherwise worded, means if the colony belonged to the English instead of the Portuguese, Senhor,” tartly remarked Dom Francisco.“Not so, Senhor de Maxara; the English in South Africa have failed in many things, as regards colonisation, nor could I be guilty of such a thought.”“The object of my mission is to draw up a report as to the capabilities of the land, and I hope a new day may now dawn for the Portuguese colonies in South Africa,” said the noble. “The country is rich in mineral products. Cattle and animals of all kinds abound in the plains, while coal, gold, iron, and copper could be procured for the labour of taking them,” he continued; “but that is Captain Weber, is it not, leaning over the bulwarks; will you go with me, Senhor, and serve me as interpreter? I wish much to thank him for the arrangements he has made for our comfort.”Hughes thus left with Dona Isabel, a silence ensued. The sails were banging loosely in the brails, flapping against the masts, for the night was perfectly calm, but still there was the never ceasing throb of the ocean, causing the brig to roll lazily, the cordage and blocks to strain and creak, the studding sail booms to rattle, and the timbers of the stout brig herself to groan and moan.“I was wondering, Senhora,” said Hughes, breaking the silence at last, “what made you think of a voyage to so remote a region as Africa?”“Oh, that is easily told. My father has a long pedigree, but a cramped estate. Our Portuguese nobility are mostly in the same position. My mother, of the old and princely house of the Guzmans, died when I was quite a child, and my life has been passed with an aunt, in France. She, too, died, and the convent of the Augustine sisters was no longer a home for me; besides, my education was finished.”“I wish it had comprised the English language, Senhora,” said Hughes, smiling.“I wish it had, too, for I should like to talk to Captain Weber,” replied the girl, laughing. “To continue, my father was honoured with his present mission, and was about to refuse it on my account. It may lead to a definite appointment, and as he never denies me anything, I easily persuaded him to accept, and to let me accompany him.”The brig’s bows had been during the last hour all round the compass, but at that moment she lay with her head to the southward. A heavy puff of hot wind struck her suddenly, taking her aback and giving her sternway, the studding sail booms snapping off short in the irons, the broken ends with their gear coming tumbling down, those of the mainyard falling on the quarter-deck. The whole was over in an instant.“In with the studding-sails, my lads, look alive,” called the captain, as the watch on deck busied themselves with the useless sails.“You will excuse me, gentlemen,” said Captain Weber, “that puff is but a precursor of the wind that is to follow, and I must get the sails off the brig.”Taking off his cap politely, the captain turned to his work, while, with a ceremonious salute, Dom Maxara offered his arm to his daughter to conduct her below.“Good night, gentlemen, we shall meet again in the morning,” said the noble. A pressure of the hand, a low “Good night,” a silvery toned voice repeating the word, and Captain Hughes found himself alone, gazing over the bulwarks into the blue sea, and thinking.Thinking of Isabel, of course. Then she was not rich, and he was glad of it. But why should he be glad? for he was not rich himself, and beyond a few hundreds a year and his pay, he had nothing to boast of. What on earth did Dona Isabel’s position matter to him? A fair wind and the brig would spread her wings. A few days and the party would separate at the Cape, in all probability never to meet again. She was of an ancient race, the blood of the Guzmans mantled in that blush. Well, he, too, was of old Welsh blood, and could count kith and kin up to the days when the Druids held their unholy rites and sacrifices on the heights of Penmaenmawr and Snowdon, when Caswallon Là Hir, his ancestor, wandered through the forests of Caerleon and Bodysgallen, clad in his mantle of skins. But what was that to him, and what had he to do with the blood of the Guzmans? He would think of other matters.Again his thoughts wandered, and, as he gazed into the blue ocean, he called up a picture of another land. The lofty rugged mountains of Snowdonia, the iron-bound coast, washed by the waves of the Irish Channel, the ebbing and flowing waters of the Menai Straits, a house which had stood the wear and tear of ages, embowered in its trees near the beautiful Conway. Would Dona Isabel—pshaw!“Take a pull at the larboard braces, let fly the fore and main royal halyards. In with the canvas, my lads. Starboard the helm,” shouted the captain, as the breeze from the south struck the brig, filling her remaining canvas, and making her heel over, as she gradually gathered way. “Steady! so!” and the bubbles began to glide by the vessel’s side, the noise of the water slapping up against her bows, and the rattle of the blocks and tackle, as the canvas filled, and everything drawing, the “Halcyon,” close hauled, on a taut bowline, stood her course as near as possible.Gradually the wind freshened, and when Hughes and Captain Weber turned in at midnight, the “Halcyon” was working her way through the seas crested with foam, in that peculiar jerking manner usual to vessels close hauled; but with little cargo, and what there was light, she made splendid weather of it, topping the great waves, or wallowing in the trough, though, as Captain Weber emphatically observed, slapping his hand down on the cabin hatchway, “She didn’t ship an egg-spoonful of water.”“Hands by the royal sheets and halyards. In royals. Mr Lowe, see to the royal braces,” were the words heard, as the two stepped below, about midnight. Morning was scarcely dawning over the ocean as Captain Weber again made his appearance on deck. According to a seaman’s instinct, his first glance was directed aloft, his second to the compass.“Ah, I thought you would have a reef in the topsails before morning, Blount, and I see I am right.”“We had better go about soon, Captain Weber,” replied the mate; “there is a little westing in the gale since midnight, and the brig has lain up a couple of points.”“We will stand on until we make the coast of Madagascar, Blount; we must have made a good deal of southing, there are no islands between us and the coast, except ‘Barren Islands,’ and they lie far away to the northward.”“How’s her head now, Jones?” asked the mate.“South-east and by south, sir,” replied the man at the wheel.“Then we shall fetch Cape Saint Vincent on the Madagascar coast; and it will have been a long leg.”It was a grand sight as the little “Halcyon” struggled through the chaos of water. The change in the wind, slight as it was, had greatly aided her, but the gale was gradually increasing. Overhead the heavy clouds were flying before its fury, the long waves being an angry green, white with foam. Far as the eye could reach, one sheet of tumbling water was to be seen, bounded only by the horizon. No sail, not even a solitary gull was in sight, and through this the “Halcyon” was straggling, now rising on the foam, now falling into the bright green trough, as she dragged her way onward through the seething ocean, under her single-reefed topsails, foresail, fore-topmast-staysail, and boom-mainsail.On swept the little brig, but the gale increased in its fury after sunrise. Towards twelve o’clock, the Senhora Isabel appeared on the quarter-deck, whither she had been conducted by the first-mate. The men of the watch lay close under the weather bulwarks, seeking what shelter they could find. A good many teaspoonfuls of salt foam came dashing on board the brig now, and even the captain was forced to allow it, as he held on by the weather main-shrouds, and looked keenly to windward.“What a magnificent spectacle!” exclaimed Isabel, as she gazed on the seething ocean.“At all events we are better here than riding with both anchors down at Quillimane,” replied the mate.A report like the boom of a heavy gun was heard above the gale, and the foresail was seen flying away to leeward, blown to ribbons. A heavier blast weighed down upon the struggling brig, and before a word could be spoken, the bolts of the futtock shrouds, drawing one after another, with a splintering crash down came the fore-topmast with all its rigging and hamper, dragging with it the main-topgallant mast, and carrying away the jib-boom, the whole mass falling bodily over the side.In an instant the watch were on their legs, and the remainder of the crew poured on deck, speedily followed by the alarmed passengers.The captain stood for a moment surveying the wreck, and then with the true spirit of an old salt, accepted the situation.“Keep her away,” he shouted to the two men at the wheel; “let her go free. Steady, my lads! Out axes and cut away the wreck. Pass the word below for the sail-maker to send up a new foresail.”The wreck of the masts was now dragging under the brig’s lee, thumping heavily against her sides. Quick as thought the first-mate sprung forward, and, seizing an axe, began cutting away the ropes which kept the spars dragging after the ship. Holding on by the shrouds, the bright steel did its work, and no longer close hauled, but running free, the brig’s motion seemed much easier. Already a portion of the wreck was floating astern, a few ropes alone held the rest, and one by one they were severed, when a monster wave came rolling on towards the brig. The captain’s warning voice was heard far above the roar of the winds and waves, shouting to all to hold on. The mate alone did not hear him, as he raised his axe to sever the last rope. The blow fell, but at the same moment the brig plunged her bows into the green wave. Striking her on the counter, the vessel seemed to tremble and to pause in her career, as the green water curled over her bows and bulwarks, in one mass of white foam, falling in tons upon her deck, and rolling away to leeward, poured out of her scuppers. The little brig seemed pressed down into the ocean by the enormous weight of water, and as the wave rolled aft, there, battling with the foam, was the form of the gallant mate. Swept from his hold, the white face rose on the wave close to the brig, and Isabel screamed with horror as the helpless man, tossed about, like a cork and apparently not a yard from them, came surging along, the lips parting, and the words, “Save me! save me!” distinctly borne on the wind.Quick as thought, Captain Weber caught up a coil of rope; his arm was in the act of casting it, when the mass of spars and cordage swept past. The coil whistled through the air, it fell right over the mate’s shoulder, he clutched at it as the fore-topmast crosstrees, with the full force of the surge, struck him from behind, and he sank like a stone.A cry of terror ran through the brig, all for a moment forgetting their own danger in the horror of the scene.“Silence, fore and aft,” shouted the old captain, his grey hairs streaming in the wind. “Heave the brig to, Mr Lowe. This is no place for you, lady; let the steward lead you below. All danger is over.”“Land ho!” shouted one of the men forward, as Isabel disappeared down the hatchway.“Where away?” asked the master.“Broad on the port bow,” was the answering shout.“It is the high land of Cape Saint Vincent,” said Captain Weber, shading his eyes, and gazing intently in the direction named.The wind was increasing in violence, and the barometer in the captain’s cabin still falling. The brig had been kept away, and was now running free, but the gale was increasing rapidly.“See that the fore and main-staysails are properly bent,” called the captain.“Ay, ay, sir,” came the ready response, as his officer stepped hastily forward.It is always a ticklish thing to heave a vessel to when there is a heavy sea running. The brig’s sails were reduced until she was stripped to her close-reefed main-topsails, her fore-staysail was then set, and the two officers exchanged places, the old captain sprang forward, and holding on by the weather fore-shrouds, gazed wistfully over the ocean, while his mate stood near the man-at-wheel, waiting the coming order.Sea after sea struck her, dashing the glittering spray high into the air, and wetting the veteran sailor to the skin, as he stood anxiously gazing over the ocean. At length a moment came when the long waves seemed less heavy. Captain Weber seized it, and a motion of the hand was enough.“Down with the helm, Adams, hard down,” shouted the watchful mate.The brig flew up to the wind. “Set the main-staysail!” was the order thundered from the quarter-deck, and steadily executed by the trained seaman, the brig being soon hove-to under her main-topsail, fore and main-staysails, making comparatively good weather of it, and everything seemed to settle down into its usual order on board the little craft.“He was a gallant fellow, and would have made a thorough seaman,” said Captain Weber, as he joined the party below, dashing the salt foam from his eyes and hair as he spoke. “He loved the sea, and left a quiet home to find a grave here in the Indian Ocean.” Isabel seemed violently affected by the scene which had passed before her eyes.“His was a sailor’s death, it may be ours to-morrow,” continued the captain. “Poor Blount! he was to have had command of one of his father’s ships next voyage.”“What do you think of the weather, Captain Weber?” asked Hughes, wishing to change the theme, for Isabel was sobbing convulsively, as the thought of the sorrowing parents came vividly before her.“These blows seldom hold long, from the fact of their extreme violence. Should it last we shall be jammed down on the Madagascar coast: indeed, we cannot be far from it, for the land hereaway is low, or we should have sighted it at daylight.”“Shall we feel the loss of our spars much?” inquired Wyzinski.“Not so much while lying to; but our wings are nicely clipped. The ‘Halcyon’ has been at sea, trading on this coast, for nearly three years, without ever having the advantage of a good overhaul, or such an accident could never have happened.”During the whole day, however, the gale continued unabated, and the dinner table was a neglected one by all save the captain. The party had been so lately at sea, as to escape all sufferings from sea-sickness, but the roar of the waves, the rattling of the ropes and blocks, the howling of the wind, and the many noises incidental to a gale, prevented, in a certain measure, even conversation. Every now and then a mass of water would tumble inboard with a loud thud, as it deluged the brig’s decks and washed away to leeward. The staysails, too, as the vessel fell into the deep trough of the angry waves, would flap with a report like distant thunder; in a word, all the discomforts of a heavy gale in a small vessel were making themselves felt.Night had again set in, and in the cabin Dom Maxara sat, his head thrown back and his eyes closed, as though asleep, while his daughter, lying on a sofa, covered with shawls, was endeavouring to read. It was nearly midnight, but no one thought of retiring. At the table, close under a lamp, which was waving wildly to and fro, the captain was seated, intently studying a government map, while Wyzinski leaned over his shoulders in earnest conversation.“There,” said Captain Weber, as he placed a pin in the chart, “there is just where the brig is.”“And yet it was only this morning land was sighted,” observed the other.“There exist strong currents, which have set us bodily to leeward; the wind, too, has more westing in it, and is driving us down on the land. It is but a question of time.”“If the wind has drawn more to the westward, could we not hold our course!”“As I said some time since, the brig has been three years at sea without an overhaul. If you had asked me the same question this morning, I should have expressed every confidence in her powers, but you saw yourself the sticks go over the side like rotten carrots, and I should have to carry every rag we could set to claw off this shore, for I don’t want to scud before the gale if it can be avoided.”“Many years ago,” said Wyzinski, “I was one of a party of missionaries who sailed from Delagoa Bay with the intention of forming a mission on the island of Madagascar. The small vessel which carried us was commanded by a man who had traded with the natives, and who knew the coast well. He ran into a beautiful bay, all but land-locked, where we anchored, and remained for nearly a month.”“What course did you steer after leaving Delagoa Bay—can you remember?”Wyzinski was silent, evidently trying to recall long-past events, while Isabel had let her book fall on to the sofa by her side, and, with her limited stock of English, was evidently trying to catch the meaning of the conversation. Above all came the wild roar of the waves’ boiling around them, the groaning and creaking of the ship’s timbers, and the boom of the fore-staysail as it shook in the wind.“Our course lay north-east and by north,” at length said Wyzinski, his thoughtful face raised to the lamp, “for the first twenty-four hours.”“Good,” answered Captain Weber, ruling off the course on the chart. “There, that would carry you to somewhere about the latitude of Cape Correnti, and then?”“It is almost impossible for me to remember,” replied the missionary; “but to the best of my recollection it was east north-east.”The old captain bent over the chart, once more using the pencil and ruler.“That would bring you within a short distance of Saint Augustine’s Bay, as it is marked in this chart,” said he, looking upwards at Wyzinski.“That’s it! That’s the name we gave it, because the vessel was called the ‘Saint Augustine!’” exclaimed the missionary.“Can you give me any particulars about the entrance to the harbour?”“None: we ran straight in and straight out. There are two clumps of trees to the right on the spit of land which sweeps into the sea, forming a natural breakwater.”“To starboard or port?” asked Weber.“On the right as we ran in, and the vessel passed so close to the bluff on which they stood that I could have thrown a piece of money on shore.”“What tonnage was the ‘Saint Augustine’? Hitherto you have called her only a vessel.”“She was a schooner of about one hundred and fifty tons,” answered Wyzinski; “and that is all I can tell you about the matter, which is a very melancholy one for me, as I lost a dear friend.”“Killed by the natives, I suppose? Ay, ay, they are a bad lot; but I have a couple of guns on board, and I don’t fear them. If the harbour is what you represent it, we should lie there on an even keel, and in forty-eight hours I could rig out a jury fore-topmast.”The captain rose, and turned to Isabel before he placed on his head the heavy sou’-wester. “We will have you in smooth water before this time to-morrow, my little lady,” he said, as he turned.Isabel smiled, and looked to the missionary for an explanation.Drawing a stool to the side of the sofa, for standing was no easy matter, so violently did the brig pitch, he explained to her exactly what had passed.“Oh dear, how glad I shall be!” she answered. “The noise and confusion wear one out. I have often wished to witness a severe storm at sea, but I shall never wish it again.”“I have been in many, but only one when the wind was more violent than this. Fourteen vessels, large and small, were sunk in Table Bay on that occasion.”“Did I understand you rightly that you have landed on the Madagascar coast?”“Yes,” replied Wyzinski; “but it is a sad tale of cruelty and death.”“Would it pain you to tell it me?” asked Isabel, in her low sweet tones, turning her dark eyes on the missionary’s face, and laying her hand on his arm.“When we lie in Saint Augustine’s Bay, and I can make myself heard better than at present, I will do so. Try to sleep now,” answered the missionary, rising. “I am going on deck to join Captain Hughes, and shall be very glad when morning dawns.”And it did dawn, slowly and faintly over the boiling ocean. Large masses of dark cloud were hurrying over the sky, and chasing one another as though in sport. To seaward the horizon was clear, and one mass of foam-tipped waves were to be marked far as the eye could reach. Not ten miles to leeward lay the long line of the Madagascar coast, with Cape Saint Vincent jutting into the sea, while, with the wind blowing a heavy gale from the west-south-west, the “Halcyon,” with her diminished sail, her foremast, main-topmast, and bowsprit standing, looked terribly shorn of her fair proportions. The waves every now and then poured on her decks, rolling away to leeward, and the ropes were here and there flying loose, and streaming in the wind. A strong current must have set the brig down bodily on to the land, and Captain Weber had made up his mind to run for the bay which the missionary had spoken of.On the quarter-deck, holding on to windward, stood a group of three. Captain Weber, the missionary, and Hughes had watched through the night, and were anxiously waiting for full daylight. Under the weather bulwarks, wrapped in their waterproofs, with their long thick boots poking out here and there, lay huddled the crew.“There,” said the captain, pointing to a fine bold headland just tinged by the beams of the rising sun as it shone through a break in the clouds, “that is Cape Saint Vincent. The land tumbles in board to the southward and eastward, and your two clumps of trees will guide us. Will you know the place again?”“Everything connected with it is so stamped on my memory, that I could draw the bay for you.”“Very well, here goes. Mr Lowe, rouse up the watch, send four men to the wheel, set the foresail.”Mr Lowe, though second mate, now naturally took the place of the drowned seaman. The yards, instead of being braced sharp up, were eased off, the helm carefully tended, and under her main-topsail, foresail, and fore-topmast-staysail, the “Halcyon,” on an easy bowline, dragged like a wounded sea-bird through the boiling waves, running parallel with the coast. Hour after hour wore on, and all watched anxiously. The long sandy line was now not more than five miles distant, and the tall cocoa-nut trees could be seen plainly.Now and then the sun would break out and light up the scene, but hour after hour passed on, and still the gale blew furiously, while the sea, striking the brig’s counter, poured over her fore and aft. No one quitted the deck, but now and then the captain’s steward, a Malay, popped up his head with some inquiry from below. “Tell them we shall soon be in smooth water,” shouted Captain Weber, as towards ten o’clock the man’s face appeared through the little opening.The brig was rapidly approaching a bold headland, which bore no name on the map. She would pass it at a distance of not more than a mile. The chart was nailed down on the wood-work of the cabin hatchway, and was continually consulted by both the missionary and the captain.“I know that headland,” shouted the former, placing his mouth close to the captain’s ear. “The bay lies about five miles to the southward of it.”Slowly the brig crept up with the nameless cape. She neared it; she was abeam, and now it lay abaft her beam, but the land once more curved inward, and the cliffs seemed scarped down to the sea. Seizing a telescope, and steadying himself by the hatchway, Wyzinski looked eagerly in the direction of land.“There,” he said, “at last,” handing the instrument to the captain. “Yonder is the bay, and there stand the two clumps of cocoa-nut trees.”Captain Weber looked long and eagerly. To the southward the land trended seaward, a lofty headland being visible. The “Halcyon” was embayed; for in her crippled state to weather that cape with such a gale blowing was impossible, and to anchor with that furious sea breaking on a lee shore would be sure destruction. Saint Augustine’s Bay was their only chance now. The crippled brig dragged slowly along.“Now, sir,” shouted Captain Weber, addressing the missionary, “come with me. Mr Lowe, send two men to lash us in the starboard fore-shrouds; take up your position here on the break of the quarter-deck; let the men be stationed under the weather bulwarks. See the best bower clear.”Cautioning the men at the wheel, the captain moved forward, followed by the missionary, under the shelter of the bulwarks. It was a task of no small difficulty to secure the two men in the fore-shrouds, the salt brine pouring over the whole party over and over again.“Starboard,” shouted the captain. “Ease away the fore-sheets; let fly the main-topsail; haul down the fore-staysail.” The second mate gave the necessary orders; the main-topsail yard settled down upon the cap; the fore-staysail sheets were let fly, and the sail flapping heavily was hauled down and secured. The rattle of the clue garnets was heard as the foresail was nearly squared, and the brig’s head payed off from the wind.It was a moment of great anxiety, for as she fell off the seas struck her broadside on, but Captain Weber had watched his time. One huge toppling wave came rushing onwards. “Hold on,” shouted the captain; as striking the brig’s bulwarks it stove them in, smashing the gig, and pouring into the waist of the vessel, hid her for a moment under the white foam. The buoyant craft rose, turning her stern to the waves, and feeling the full force of the foresail, dashed along straight for the shore. “Steady, so; starboard a little; steady,” shouted the captain, as with the trumpet in his right hand, he held on with a seaman’s grip to the shrouds. His cap had blown away to leeward, and his long grey hair was streaming on the wind, both he and the missionary having been buried under the boiling foam, as the “Halcyon” wore round.The sharp jerking motion of the previous day was now exchanged for one much easier. Rising on the wave, the brig felt the full force of the gale, and seemed about to leave her native element, as the broad sheet of stout canvass tore her along, to sink the next moment in the deep trough, the canvass shaking, and astern, a mighty wave curling, and tipped with white foam, about to break on her deck, but to glide away under her keel, as she drove madly on for land, where not half a mile ahead lay the narrow opening to Saint Augustine’s Bay.“Keep close to the bluff crowned by the cocoa-nuts,” shouted Wyzinski, as the brig, sinking in the trough, yawed wildly to port. Onward drove the “Halcyon.” She entered the outlet; one wild roll on the surging wave, and her fore-yard seemed to touch the bare rock; the next she ran into a noble and nearly land-locked bay. “Port your helm; hard a-port,” shouted the captain. “See the anchor clear.” A dozen men swarmed on the forecastle. “Brail up the foresail;” and the clue garnets rattled as the sail was quickly furled. The brig giving a broad sheer came sweeping round, gradually lost her way; then feeling the wind aloft, gathered sternway. “Let go the anchor,” shouted Captain Weber. “Let go the anchor!” roared Mr Lowe, from his post on the quarter-deck. A heavy splash followed, and the next moment the “Halcyon,” her starboard bulwarks gone for a length of two yards abaft, the forechains, the remains of her gig swinging at the davits, her fore-topmast and jib-boom gone, her foremast, main, and main-topmasts only standing, her first-mate lying hundreds of fathoms deep in the salt sea, rode on an even keel by a single anchor in Saint Augustine’s Bay, the gale roaring, and the dark masses of clouds flying over head.
The coast of Africa, as seen from the sea, is never very prepossessing; and the sandy spit of land, with the equally sandy bar, which obstructs the entrance to the Zambesi at Quillimane, is no exception to the rule, while the banks of the river are low and flat, dotted here and there with tall cocoa-palms, and haunted by alligators. The town itself, or rather village, for it can hardly boast of any more sounding name, consists of a few better-class houses, one of which was owned by Dom Assevédo, and a number of half-ruinous huts and sheds. The anchorage is unsafe, and often untenable, while the low-lying land is a hot-bed of fever. Outside the bar, her two anchors down, the blue peter at her fore, and the English Union Jack floating at her gaff, rode the brig “Halcyon.” She was a rakish-looking craft, her long low black hull rising on the waves, and showing from time to time her bright clean copper as she rolled. Her masts raked slightly off, her sharp bows and sides round as an apple, told the seaman at once that she must be a dry ship, and her breadth of beam, if needed, attested the fact. Every bit of brass work on board was as usual rubbed bright as gold, every rope was carefully coiled down, and her decks white as snow. The “Halcyon” would not, in fact, as she rode to her anchors off the bar at Quillimane, have disgraced herself, even had she been, as she once was, her Majesty’s gun brig “Torch.”
Sold out at a time when the system of steam was rapidly changing the aspect of the navy, the “Torch” was nearly new. Bought by a Liverpool firm, she had been thoroughly overhauled and fitted out for a three years’ cruise on the African coast, trading in ivory, gold dust, and ostrich feathers.
Captain Weber, an old sailor of thirty years’ standing, commanded and partly owned her, and on such a voyage of course great latitude had been allowed him.
His three years’ trading voyage ended, and bound for the Cape, but intending once more to touch at Delagoa Bay, he had been induced to delay his departure in consideration of the handsome sum offered by the Portuguese nobleman returning from his tour of inspection of the stations on the Zambesi.
Captain Weber, as has been already mentioned, was a middle-sized stout built man, with a reddish mahogany-coloured face, and long grey hair. He was proud of his brig, lived for her, and believed in her capabilities to an unlimited extent. His first-mate, Thomas Blount, was a young man for his station in life, rather tall, and, as we have already seen, fond of dress. The two were leaning over the bulwarks, looking towards the land, one afternoon, three days after the events just narrated. The crew, which was a strong one, consisting of twenty hands, all told, were between decks.
“Our passengers should arrive this afternoon. Dom Assevédo’s messenger said so, did he not, Captain Weber?”
“Yes, and that haze to the southward and eastward tells of a blow. It will be a foul wind for us. We must make sail before sunset, Mr Blount.”
“I think,” remarked the younger man, “I see a boat crossing the bar, there, right over that Madras fellow’s stern.”
“Well, I hope it may be them. We have more fever on board than I care to see, and I hate this hot, unhealthy hole. Rouse up the watch, Mr Blount, and heave short at once.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the mate, touching his cap, round which ran a narrow strip of gold lace, and moving away.
The captain remained where he was, watching the black specks, for there were three of them, rising and falling on the waves outside Quillimane bar. The decks of the brig were no longer deserted, and the shipping of the capstan bars told that the orders just given were being carried out.
“Bring to, starboard cable,” called the first officer from the quarter-deck.
“Ay, ay, sir,” was the ready response, for the seamen were tired of riding at anchor off the bar, and the click of the capstan, as they stamped round to a merry tune of the flute, was music to officers and men alike.
“Up and down, sir,” was the cry of the second mate, who on the forecastle was superintending the duty of heaving up the anchor, and which term meant that the brig was right over her anchor.
“Heaving away, sir,” came again the cheering shout, as the anchor left the ground and the men strained every nerve to run the heavy mass up to the brig’s bows.
The flute rang out a merrier tune, round and round went the capstan bars, then came the second officer’s loud shout of “Heaving in sight, sir,” as the men suddenly stopped in their merry round.
“Cat and fish the anchor, Mr Lowe. Bring to the port cable. Heave short,” were the brief words of command from the quarter-deck.
“All ready with the cat, sir,” was the responsive shout, soon followed by the customary words, “All ready with the fish, sir,” while the men, the starboard anchor being got on board, duly secured, or, in more nautical terms, catted and fished, clapped on the port or remaining anchor, which now alone held the brig, gently rolling to the swell, and that in its turn being soon up and down, Mr Blount reported to his superior officer.
“Do you make out the boats, sir?” he added, as Captain Weber still remained looking towards shore.
“Ay, ay,” replied the seaman. “There’s Dom Assevédo’s barge, the lubberly Portuguese blowing and puffing like grampus at their oars.”
“Rig out a tackle from the main yard. We shall have to hoist the lady in, and perhaps the Dom too, like a bale of cotton.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” replied the mate.
“Make sail, Mr Blount; brace up the headyards. Let me know when you are ready.”
Ten minutes later the passengers were on board, and Dom Assevédo’s barge veered astern.
“It’s rather hard I can’t speak to my lady passenger,” said Weber, as he went down below with the party.
“Tell him I can understand English, though I am afraid to speak it,” said Isabel in French to Hughes, who was by her side.
“Ay, ay, my pretty one, we’ll soon take the shame-faced-ness out of you; nothing like blue water for doing that. Well, you tell the Dom that I’ll send all his traps below. Senhor Assevédo, I can’t give you much law,” said the old seaman, in his rough hearty tones, as he turned to return to his post. “Steward, show the lady her berth. Look alive, man,” he continued, calling down the hatchway.
The brig was now riding at single anchor, the headyards braced up one way, her afteryards the other, her sails flapping heavily.
“Heave away, my lads, heave away with a will,” shouted Weber, the moment his foot touched the quarter-deck, and the remaining anchor was soon hove up, and properly stowed away on board. “Brace round the headyards. Let fall the fore course. Take a pull at the bowlines, Mr Blount. Touch her with the wheel, Adams, she will come up a couple of points yet,” were the rapid words of command, and the “Halcyon” moved through the water on a taut bowline, heading nearly her course.
“A pleasant voyage to you,” said Dom Assevédo, as he bent over Isabel’s hand in the cabin.
“Below there!” came in the captain’s rough tones, “tell the Senhor Assevédo that if he don’t want to see the Cape, he had better get on board his barge. The tow-rope won’t hold on long, I’m thinking.”
Heartily shaking hands with all, the Portuguese gentleman, whose name and kindly nature are well known to men of every nation trading on the Zambesi, stepped over the side, the boat’s painter was cast off, a last good bye shouted in Weber’s stentorian voice, and the “Halcyon,” with all sail set, to her royals, was soon standing off the bar, the bubbles flying past her rounded counter, as she slipped through the water at the rate of sonde six knots an hour.
Towards sunset the wind fell, and the brig began to lose her way. The stars came out shining through a thin haze, and sail after sail flapped against the masts, filling for a moment, then collapsing again, until soon the “Halcyon” lay rolling on the gentle swell, her cordage rattling, her blocks and tackles striking against her spars and rigging, her hull groaning, and her sails perfectly useless, not having even steerage way.
Leaning over the bulwarks, and looking towards the land, the faint outline of which could still be discovered about ten miles distant, Hughes was conversing with the captain.
“You think, then, we shall have wind?” he asked.
“I am sure of it,” replied Weber; “look at the double halo round the moon, look at the sickly, watery appearance of the clouds, look at that fog-bank away to the southward. We shall have plenty of wind before morning.”
“And from what direction?”
“Dead against us,” replied the seaman; “we want to run to the south, and the wind will blow from that quarter.”
“You have a beautiful craft, Captain Weber, and one I know can show weatherly qualities.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the captain, slapping his hand down on the bulwark, “I love every stick the jade carries, every rope-yarn aboard of her; while I am at sea, she is wife and children to me. Do you hear the wind sighing aloft? You would do well to persuade the lady to turn in.”
Wyzinski, Dom Francisco, and Isabel were walking on the quarter-deck deeply engaged in conversation, and enjoying the freshness of the night.
“I did not think I should ever look back to the Zambesi with pleasure,” said Isabel, as Hughes joined the party; “but really, the unostentatious hospitality we received from Senhor Assevédo will always be remembered by me. It is a magnificent river, and I am sure must be fully half a mile wide in some parts. The coolness of the air, too; I never thought to see European vegetables, such as peas and cabbages, growing side by side with the mango and banana.”
“Ah, with its plains of wild cotton, which no one takes the trouble to cultivate, its sugar-canes, indigo, and droves of splendid cattle, the country bordering on the Zambesi might be a very rich one,” said Wyzinski.
“Which, otherwise worded, means if the colony belonged to the English instead of the Portuguese, Senhor,” tartly remarked Dom Francisco.
“Not so, Senhor de Maxara; the English in South Africa have failed in many things, as regards colonisation, nor could I be guilty of such a thought.”
“The object of my mission is to draw up a report as to the capabilities of the land, and I hope a new day may now dawn for the Portuguese colonies in South Africa,” said the noble. “The country is rich in mineral products. Cattle and animals of all kinds abound in the plains, while coal, gold, iron, and copper could be procured for the labour of taking them,” he continued; “but that is Captain Weber, is it not, leaning over the bulwarks; will you go with me, Senhor, and serve me as interpreter? I wish much to thank him for the arrangements he has made for our comfort.”
Hughes thus left with Dona Isabel, a silence ensued. The sails were banging loosely in the brails, flapping against the masts, for the night was perfectly calm, but still there was the never ceasing throb of the ocean, causing the brig to roll lazily, the cordage and blocks to strain and creak, the studding sail booms to rattle, and the timbers of the stout brig herself to groan and moan.
“I was wondering, Senhora,” said Hughes, breaking the silence at last, “what made you think of a voyage to so remote a region as Africa?”
“Oh, that is easily told. My father has a long pedigree, but a cramped estate. Our Portuguese nobility are mostly in the same position. My mother, of the old and princely house of the Guzmans, died when I was quite a child, and my life has been passed with an aunt, in France. She, too, died, and the convent of the Augustine sisters was no longer a home for me; besides, my education was finished.”
“I wish it had comprised the English language, Senhora,” said Hughes, smiling.
“I wish it had, too, for I should like to talk to Captain Weber,” replied the girl, laughing. “To continue, my father was honoured with his present mission, and was about to refuse it on my account. It may lead to a definite appointment, and as he never denies me anything, I easily persuaded him to accept, and to let me accompany him.”
The brig’s bows had been during the last hour all round the compass, but at that moment she lay with her head to the southward. A heavy puff of hot wind struck her suddenly, taking her aback and giving her sternway, the studding sail booms snapping off short in the irons, the broken ends with their gear coming tumbling down, those of the mainyard falling on the quarter-deck. The whole was over in an instant.
“In with the studding-sails, my lads, look alive,” called the captain, as the watch on deck busied themselves with the useless sails.
“You will excuse me, gentlemen,” said Captain Weber, “that puff is but a precursor of the wind that is to follow, and I must get the sails off the brig.”
Taking off his cap politely, the captain turned to his work, while, with a ceremonious salute, Dom Maxara offered his arm to his daughter to conduct her below.
“Good night, gentlemen, we shall meet again in the morning,” said the noble. A pressure of the hand, a low “Good night,” a silvery toned voice repeating the word, and Captain Hughes found himself alone, gazing over the bulwarks into the blue sea, and thinking.
Thinking of Isabel, of course. Then she was not rich, and he was glad of it. But why should he be glad? for he was not rich himself, and beyond a few hundreds a year and his pay, he had nothing to boast of. What on earth did Dona Isabel’s position matter to him? A fair wind and the brig would spread her wings. A few days and the party would separate at the Cape, in all probability never to meet again. She was of an ancient race, the blood of the Guzmans mantled in that blush. Well, he, too, was of old Welsh blood, and could count kith and kin up to the days when the Druids held their unholy rites and sacrifices on the heights of Penmaenmawr and Snowdon, when Caswallon Là Hir, his ancestor, wandered through the forests of Caerleon and Bodysgallen, clad in his mantle of skins. But what was that to him, and what had he to do with the blood of the Guzmans? He would think of other matters.
Again his thoughts wandered, and, as he gazed into the blue ocean, he called up a picture of another land. The lofty rugged mountains of Snowdonia, the iron-bound coast, washed by the waves of the Irish Channel, the ebbing and flowing waters of the Menai Straits, a house which had stood the wear and tear of ages, embowered in its trees near the beautiful Conway. Would Dona Isabel—pshaw!
“Take a pull at the larboard braces, let fly the fore and main royal halyards. In with the canvas, my lads. Starboard the helm,” shouted the captain, as the breeze from the south struck the brig, filling her remaining canvas, and making her heel over, as she gradually gathered way. “Steady! so!” and the bubbles began to glide by the vessel’s side, the noise of the water slapping up against her bows, and the rattle of the blocks and tackle, as the canvas filled, and everything drawing, the “Halcyon,” close hauled, on a taut bowline, stood her course as near as possible.
Gradually the wind freshened, and when Hughes and Captain Weber turned in at midnight, the “Halcyon” was working her way through the seas crested with foam, in that peculiar jerking manner usual to vessels close hauled; but with little cargo, and what there was light, she made splendid weather of it, topping the great waves, or wallowing in the trough, though, as Captain Weber emphatically observed, slapping his hand down on the cabin hatchway, “She didn’t ship an egg-spoonful of water.”
“Hands by the royal sheets and halyards. In royals. Mr Lowe, see to the royal braces,” were the words heard, as the two stepped below, about midnight. Morning was scarcely dawning over the ocean as Captain Weber again made his appearance on deck. According to a seaman’s instinct, his first glance was directed aloft, his second to the compass.
“Ah, I thought you would have a reef in the topsails before morning, Blount, and I see I am right.”
“We had better go about soon, Captain Weber,” replied the mate; “there is a little westing in the gale since midnight, and the brig has lain up a couple of points.”
“We will stand on until we make the coast of Madagascar, Blount; we must have made a good deal of southing, there are no islands between us and the coast, except ‘Barren Islands,’ and they lie far away to the northward.”
“How’s her head now, Jones?” asked the mate.
“South-east and by south, sir,” replied the man at the wheel.
“Then we shall fetch Cape Saint Vincent on the Madagascar coast; and it will have been a long leg.”
It was a grand sight as the little “Halcyon” struggled through the chaos of water. The change in the wind, slight as it was, had greatly aided her, but the gale was gradually increasing. Overhead the heavy clouds were flying before its fury, the long waves being an angry green, white with foam. Far as the eye could reach, one sheet of tumbling water was to be seen, bounded only by the horizon. No sail, not even a solitary gull was in sight, and through this the “Halcyon” was straggling, now rising on the foam, now falling into the bright green trough, as she dragged her way onward through the seething ocean, under her single-reefed topsails, foresail, fore-topmast-staysail, and boom-mainsail.
On swept the little brig, but the gale increased in its fury after sunrise. Towards twelve o’clock, the Senhora Isabel appeared on the quarter-deck, whither she had been conducted by the first-mate. The men of the watch lay close under the weather bulwarks, seeking what shelter they could find. A good many teaspoonfuls of salt foam came dashing on board the brig now, and even the captain was forced to allow it, as he held on by the weather main-shrouds, and looked keenly to windward.
“What a magnificent spectacle!” exclaimed Isabel, as she gazed on the seething ocean.
“At all events we are better here than riding with both anchors down at Quillimane,” replied the mate.
A report like the boom of a heavy gun was heard above the gale, and the foresail was seen flying away to leeward, blown to ribbons. A heavier blast weighed down upon the struggling brig, and before a word could be spoken, the bolts of the futtock shrouds, drawing one after another, with a splintering crash down came the fore-topmast with all its rigging and hamper, dragging with it the main-topgallant mast, and carrying away the jib-boom, the whole mass falling bodily over the side.
In an instant the watch were on their legs, and the remainder of the crew poured on deck, speedily followed by the alarmed passengers.
The captain stood for a moment surveying the wreck, and then with the true spirit of an old salt, accepted the situation.
“Keep her away,” he shouted to the two men at the wheel; “let her go free. Steady, my lads! Out axes and cut away the wreck. Pass the word below for the sail-maker to send up a new foresail.”
The wreck of the masts was now dragging under the brig’s lee, thumping heavily against her sides. Quick as thought the first-mate sprung forward, and, seizing an axe, began cutting away the ropes which kept the spars dragging after the ship. Holding on by the shrouds, the bright steel did its work, and no longer close hauled, but running free, the brig’s motion seemed much easier. Already a portion of the wreck was floating astern, a few ropes alone held the rest, and one by one they were severed, when a monster wave came rolling on towards the brig. The captain’s warning voice was heard far above the roar of the winds and waves, shouting to all to hold on. The mate alone did not hear him, as he raised his axe to sever the last rope. The blow fell, but at the same moment the brig plunged her bows into the green wave. Striking her on the counter, the vessel seemed to tremble and to pause in her career, as the green water curled over her bows and bulwarks, in one mass of white foam, falling in tons upon her deck, and rolling away to leeward, poured out of her scuppers. The little brig seemed pressed down into the ocean by the enormous weight of water, and as the wave rolled aft, there, battling with the foam, was the form of the gallant mate. Swept from his hold, the white face rose on the wave close to the brig, and Isabel screamed with horror as the helpless man, tossed about, like a cork and apparently not a yard from them, came surging along, the lips parting, and the words, “Save me! save me!” distinctly borne on the wind.
Quick as thought, Captain Weber caught up a coil of rope; his arm was in the act of casting it, when the mass of spars and cordage swept past. The coil whistled through the air, it fell right over the mate’s shoulder, he clutched at it as the fore-topmast crosstrees, with the full force of the surge, struck him from behind, and he sank like a stone.
A cry of terror ran through the brig, all for a moment forgetting their own danger in the horror of the scene.
“Silence, fore and aft,” shouted the old captain, his grey hairs streaming in the wind. “Heave the brig to, Mr Lowe. This is no place for you, lady; let the steward lead you below. All danger is over.”
“Land ho!” shouted one of the men forward, as Isabel disappeared down the hatchway.
“Where away?” asked the master.
“Broad on the port bow,” was the answering shout.
“It is the high land of Cape Saint Vincent,” said Captain Weber, shading his eyes, and gazing intently in the direction named.
The wind was increasing in violence, and the barometer in the captain’s cabin still falling. The brig had been kept away, and was now running free, but the gale was increasing rapidly.
“See that the fore and main-staysails are properly bent,” called the captain.
“Ay, ay, sir,” came the ready response, as his officer stepped hastily forward.
It is always a ticklish thing to heave a vessel to when there is a heavy sea running. The brig’s sails were reduced until she was stripped to her close-reefed main-topsails, her fore-staysail was then set, and the two officers exchanged places, the old captain sprang forward, and holding on by the weather fore-shrouds, gazed wistfully over the ocean, while his mate stood near the man-at-wheel, waiting the coming order.
Sea after sea struck her, dashing the glittering spray high into the air, and wetting the veteran sailor to the skin, as he stood anxiously gazing over the ocean. At length a moment came when the long waves seemed less heavy. Captain Weber seized it, and a motion of the hand was enough.
“Down with the helm, Adams, hard down,” shouted the watchful mate.
The brig flew up to the wind. “Set the main-staysail!” was the order thundered from the quarter-deck, and steadily executed by the trained seaman, the brig being soon hove-to under her main-topsail, fore and main-staysails, making comparatively good weather of it, and everything seemed to settle down into its usual order on board the little craft.
“He was a gallant fellow, and would have made a thorough seaman,” said Captain Weber, as he joined the party below, dashing the salt foam from his eyes and hair as he spoke. “He loved the sea, and left a quiet home to find a grave here in the Indian Ocean.” Isabel seemed violently affected by the scene which had passed before her eyes.
“His was a sailor’s death, it may be ours to-morrow,” continued the captain. “Poor Blount! he was to have had command of one of his father’s ships next voyage.”
“What do you think of the weather, Captain Weber?” asked Hughes, wishing to change the theme, for Isabel was sobbing convulsively, as the thought of the sorrowing parents came vividly before her.
“These blows seldom hold long, from the fact of their extreme violence. Should it last we shall be jammed down on the Madagascar coast: indeed, we cannot be far from it, for the land hereaway is low, or we should have sighted it at daylight.”
“Shall we feel the loss of our spars much?” inquired Wyzinski.
“Not so much while lying to; but our wings are nicely clipped. The ‘Halcyon’ has been at sea, trading on this coast, for nearly three years, without ever having the advantage of a good overhaul, or such an accident could never have happened.”
During the whole day, however, the gale continued unabated, and the dinner table was a neglected one by all save the captain. The party had been so lately at sea, as to escape all sufferings from sea-sickness, but the roar of the waves, the rattling of the ropes and blocks, the howling of the wind, and the many noises incidental to a gale, prevented, in a certain measure, even conversation. Every now and then a mass of water would tumble inboard with a loud thud, as it deluged the brig’s decks and washed away to leeward. The staysails, too, as the vessel fell into the deep trough of the angry waves, would flap with a report like distant thunder; in a word, all the discomforts of a heavy gale in a small vessel were making themselves felt.
Night had again set in, and in the cabin Dom Maxara sat, his head thrown back and his eyes closed, as though asleep, while his daughter, lying on a sofa, covered with shawls, was endeavouring to read. It was nearly midnight, but no one thought of retiring. At the table, close under a lamp, which was waving wildly to and fro, the captain was seated, intently studying a government map, while Wyzinski leaned over his shoulders in earnest conversation.
“There,” said Captain Weber, as he placed a pin in the chart, “there is just where the brig is.”
“And yet it was only this morning land was sighted,” observed the other.
“There exist strong currents, which have set us bodily to leeward; the wind, too, has more westing in it, and is driving us down on the land. It is but a question of time.”
“If the wind has drawn more to the westward, could we not hold our course!”
“As I said some time since, the brig has been three years at sea without an overhaul. If you had asked me the same question this morning, I should have expressed every confidence in her powers, but you saw yourself the sticks go over the side like rotten carrots, and I should have to carry every rag we could set to claw off this shore, for I don’t want to scud before the gale if it can be avoided.”
“Many years ago,” said Wyzinski, “I was one of a party of missionaries who sailed from Delagoa Bay with the intention of forming a mission on the island of Madagascar. The small vessel which carried us was commanded by a man who had traded with the natives, and who knew the coast well. He ran into a beautiful bay, all but land-locked, where we anchored, and remained for nearly a month.”
“What course did you steer after leaving Delagoa Bay—can you remember?”
Wyzinski was silent, evidently trying to recall long-past events, while Isabel had let her book fall on to the sofa by her side, and, with her limited stock of English, was evidently trying to catch the meaning of the conversation. Above all came the wild roar of the waves’ boiling around them, the groaning and creaking of the ship’s timbers, and the boom of the fore-staysail as it shook in the wind.
“Our course lay north-east and by north,” at length said Wyzinski, his thoughtful face raised to the lamp, “for the first twenty-four hours.”
“Good,” answered Captain Weber, ruling off the course on the chart. “There, that would carry you to somewhere about the latitude of Cape Correnti, and then?”
“It is almost impossible for me to remember,” replied the missionary; “but to the best of my recollection it was east north-east.”
The old captain bent over the chart, once more using the pencil and ruler.
“That would bring you within a short distance of Saint Augustine’s Bay, as it is marked in this chart,” said he, looking upwards at Wyzinski.
“That’s it! That’s the name we gave it, because the vessel was called the ‘Saint Augustine!’” exclaimed the missionary.
“Can you give me any particulars about the entrance to the harbour?”
“None: we ran straight in and straight out. There are two clumps of trees to the right on the spit of land which sweeps into the sea, forming a natural breakwater.”
“To starboard or port?” asked Weber.
“On the right as we ran in, and the vessel passed so close to the bluff on which they stood that I could have thrown a piece of money on shore.”
“What tonnage was the ‘Saint Augustine’? Hitherto you have called her only a vessel.”
“She was a schooner of about one hundred and fifty tons,” answered Wyzinski; “and that is all I can tell you about the matter, which is a very melancholy one for me, as I lost a dear friend.”
“Killed by the natives, I suppose? Ay, ay, they are a bad lot; but I have a couple of guns on board, and I don’t fear them. If the harbour is what you represent it, we should lie there on an even keel, and in forty-eight hours I could rig out a jury fore-topmast.”
The captain rose, and turned to Isabel before he placed on his head the heavy sou’-wester. “We will have you in smooth water before this time to-morrow, my little lady,” he said, as he turned.
Isabel smiled, and looked to the missionary for an explanation.
Drawing a stool to the side of the sofa, for standing was no easy matter, so violently did the brig pitch, he explained to her exactly what had passed.
“Oh dear, how glad I shall be!” she answered. “The noise and confusion wear one out. I have often wished to witness a severe storm at sea, but I shall never wish it again.”
“I have been in many, but only one when the wind was more violent than this. Fourteen vessels, large and small, were sunk in Table Bay on that occasion.”
“Did I understand you rightly that you have landed on the Madagascar coast?”
“Yes,” replied Wyzinski; “but it is a sad tale of cruelty and death.”
“Would it pain you to tell it me?” asked Isabel, in her low sweet tones, turning her dark eyes on the missionary’s face, and laying her hand on his arm.
“When we lie in Saint Augustine’s Bay, and I can make myself heard better than at present, I will do so. Try to sleep now,” answered the missionary, rising. “I am going on deck to join Captain Hughes, and shall be very glad when morning dawns.”
And it did dawn, slowly and faintly over the boiling ocean. Large masses of dark cloud were hurrying over the sky, and chasing one another as though in sport. To seaward the horizon was clear, and one mass of foam-tipped waves were to be marked far as the eye could reach. Not ten miles to leeward lay the long line of the Madagascar coast, with Cape Saint Vincent jutting into the sea, while, with the wind blowing a heavy gale from the west-south-west, the “Halcyon,” with her diminished sail, her foremast, main-topmast, and bowsprit standing, looked terribly shorn of her fair proportions. The waves every now and then poured on her decks, rolling away to leeward, and the ropes were here and there flying loose, and streaming in the wind. A strong current must have set the brig down bodily on to the land, and Captain Weber had made up his mind to run for the bay which the missionary had spoken of.
On the quarter-deck, holding on to windward, stood a group of three. Captain Weber, the missionary, and Hughes had watched through the night, and were anxiously waiting for full daylight. Under the weather bulwarks, wrapped in their waterproofs, with their long thick boots poking out here and there, lay huddled the crew.
“There,” said the captain, pointing to a fine bold headland just tinged by the beams of the rising sun as it shone through a break in the clouds, “that is Cape Saint Vincent. The land tumbles in board to the southward and eastward, and your two clumps of trees will guide us. Will you know the place again?”
“Everything connected with it is so stamped on my memory, that I could draw the bay for you.”
“Very well, here goes. Mr Lowe, rouse up the watch, send four men to the wheel, set the foresail.”
Mr Lowe, though second mate, now naturally took the place of the drowned seaman. The yards, instead of being braced sharp up, were eased off, the helm carefully tended, and under her main-topsail, foresail, and fore-topmast-staysail, the “Halcyon,” on an easy bowline, dragged like a wounded sea-bird through the boiling waves, running parallel with the coast. Hour after hour wore on, and all watched anxiously. The long sandy line was now not more than five miles distant, and the tall cocoa-nut trees could be seen plainly.
Now and then the sun would break out and light up the scene, but hour after hour passed on, and still the gale blew furiously, while the sea, striking the brig’s counter, poured over her fore and aft. No one quitted the deck, but now and then the captain’s steward, a Malay, popped up his head with some inquiry from below. “Tell them we shall soon be in smooth water,” shouted Captain Weber, as towards ten o’clock the man’s face appeared through the little opening.
The brig was rapidly approaching a bold headland, which bore no name on the map. She would pass it at a distance of not more than a mile. The chart was nailed down on the wood-work of the cabin hatchway, and was continually consulted by both the missionary and the captain.
“I know that headland,” shouted the former, placing his mouth close to the captain’s ear. “The bay lies about five miles to the southward of it.”
Slowly the brig crept up with the nameless cape. She neared it; she was abeam, and now it lay abaft her beam, but the land once more curved inward, and the cliffs seemed scarped down to the sea. Seizing a telescope, and steadying himself by the hatchway, Wyzinski looked eagerly in the direction of land.
“There,” he said, “at last,” handing the instrument to the captain. “Yonder is the bay, and there stand the two clumps of cocoa-nut trees.”
Captain Weber looked long and eagerly. To the southward the land trended seaward, a lofty headland being visible. The “Halcyon” was embayed; for in her crippled state to weather that cape with such a gale blowing was impossible, and to anchor with that furious sea breaking on a lee shore would be sure destruction. Saint Augustine’s Bay was their only chance now. The crippled brig dragged slowly along.
“Now, sir,” shouted Captain Weber, addressing the missionary, “come with me. Mr Lowe, send two men to lash us in the starboard fore-shrouds; take up your position here on the break of the quarter-deck; let the men be stationed under the weather bulwarks. See the best bower clear.”
Cautioning the men at the wheel, the captain moved forward, followed by the missionary, under the shelter of the bulwarks. It was a task of no small difficulty to secure the two men in the fore-shrouds, the salt brine pouring over the whole party over and over again.
“Starboard,” shouted the captain. “Ease away the fore-sheets; let fly the main-topsail; haul down the fore-staysail.” The second mate gave the necessary orders; the main-topsail yard settled down upon the cap; the fore-staysail sheets were let fly, and the sail flapping heavily was hauled down and secured. The rattle of the clue garnets was heard as the foresail was nearly squared, and the brig’s head payed off from the wind.
It was a moment of great anxiety, for as she fell off the seas struck her broadside on, but Captain Weber had watched his time. One huge toppling wave came rushing onwards. “Hold on,” shouted the captain; as striking the brig’s bulwarks it stove them in, smashing the gig, and pouring into the waist of the vessel, hid her for a moment under the white foam. The buoyant craft rose, turning her stern to the waves, and feeling the full force of the foresail, dashed along straight for the shore. “Steady, so; starboard a little; steady,” shouted the captain, as with the trumpet in his right hand, he held on with a seaman’s grip to the shrouds. His cap had blown away to leeward, and his long grey hair was streaming on the wind, both he and the missionary having been buried under the boiling foam, as the “Halcyon” wore round.
The sharp jerking motion of the previous day was now exchanged for one much easier. Rising on the wave, the brig felt the full force of the gale, and seemed about to leave her native element, as the broad sheet of stout canvass tore her along, to sink the next moment in the deep trough, the canvass shaking, and astern, a mighty wave curling, and tipped with white foam, about to break on her deck, but to glide away under her keel, as she drove madly on for land, where not half a mile ahead lay the narrow opening to Saint Augustine’s Bay.
“Keep close to the bluff crowned by the cocoa-nuts,” shouted Wyzinski, as the brig, sinking in the trough, yawed wildly to port. Onward drove the “Halcyon.” She entered the outlet; one wild roll on the surging wave, and her fore-yard seemed to touch the bare rock; the next she ran into a noble and nearly land-locked bay. “Port your helm; hard a-port,” shouted the captain. “See the anchor clear.” A dozen men swarmed on the forecastle. “Brail up the foresail;” and the clue garnets rattled as the sail was quickly furled. The brig giving a broad sheer came sweeping round, gradually lost her way; then feeling the wind aloft, gathered sternway. “Let go the anchor,” shouted Captain Weber. “Let go the anchor!” roared Mr Lowe, from his post on the quarter-deck. A heavy splash followed, and the next moment the “Halcyon,” her starboard bulwarks gone for a length of two yards abaft, the forechains, the remains of her gig swinging at the davits, her fore-topmast and jib-boom gone, her foremast, main, and main-topmasts only standing, her first-mate lying hundreds of fathoms deep in the salt sea, rode on an even keel by a single anchor in Saint Augustine’s Bay, the gale roaring, and the dark masses of clouds flying over head.
Saint Augustine’s Bay.—The Missionary’s Tale.By sunrise the following morning the gale had pretty nearly blown itself out. The heavy masses of clouds had rolled away, and a bright sun was shining on the smooth water of the bay. Outside, the ocean was still boiling and seething under the influence of the late heavy gale, but the waves, though tipped with foam, were rolling sluggishly, as if tired with their wild efforts.The “Halcyon,” late her Majesty’s brig “Torch,” did not look by any means the same vessel that had sailed from Quillimane. Neither of her masts were wholly standing. The main-topgallant mast with yards and gear was gone; the fore-topmast with all above it had disappeared, while the bowsprit looked a naked stump, and the splintered white edge of the smashed bulwarks fully attested the violence of the ordeal she had gone through. Not a regular trader, and being fitted out for a long cruise, Captain Weber was in no hurry to make a port. Having little cargo, and that selected for trading purposes, the brig was well provided with spare spars and sails, and, with the exception of Santa Lucia Bay on the coast of Natal, a better harbour for refitting her could hardly have been found. The rigging was covered with wet clothing, shaking about in the breeze. From the able seaman’s tarpaulin and long boots to the captain’s pea-jacket, and Donna Isabel’s drenched cloak, all were there drying in the sunshine. The “Halcyon” rode with her bows to seaward, while astern lay the beach shaped like a crescent, and composed of fine sand glittering in the beams of the morning sun. The luxuriant forest growth swept down nearly to the water’s edge, and the long straight stems of the cocoa-nut trees, with their tufts of thin leaves, shot up here and there like giants from among the lower growth. The crew, with the exception of two men, had been sent below, the brig being land-locked, or nearly so, and no possible danger apprehended, and as these men had been regularly relieved during the darkness, both crew and passengers had enjoyed a good night’s repose.It was about eight o’clock when Captain Weber appeared on the quarter-deck; walking aft, he looked at the now useless compass, and then glanced aloft, from a seaman’s habit.“Let the men have their breakfast, Mr Lowe, comfortably, and then we’ll go to work.”“We have a spare topmast and topgallant mast, Captain Weber; but I have been rummaging over the spars, and can find nothing that will do for the main-topgallant mast.”“Is there any stick that will serve for a jib-boom?”“Yes, sir; there is a spare fore-yard, which the carpenter thinks may do.”“Very good. The moment the men have done breakfast get the boats into the water. We will carry out an anchor astern, and keep the jade a close prisoner, to teach her not to pitch the spars out of her. Call me when they are towing astern.” And Captain Weber dived down to finish his toilet.Below, all marks of the late gale had disappeared. The steward and his mate had been busy since daylight, and the more than ordinarily comfortable though small cabin was in perfect order, when the passengers sat down at the breakfast table at nine o’clock. Of course the brig had not the slightest motion; in fact, she was as though in dock.“Rather a difference this from yesterday, Dom Maxara,” said Wyzinski, as that nobleman appeared coming from his cabin.“A difference for the better. Will you oblige me by explaining to our captain,” continued the old gentleman, “that my daughter, Donna Isabel, begs to be excused from joining the party? She is still suffering from the shock of late emotions.”A ceremonious bow followed the interpretation, on the part of the Portuguese, the Englishman replying with his mouth full.“Ay, ay, signor, and small blame to her. It is not every day the fishes get the picking of so tight a lad and thorough-bred a sailor as poor Blount.”“How long do you propose lying here, Captain Weber?”“A couple of days will set us all a-tanto again, and give us time to overhaul the standing and running gear.”“I suppose there is not any danger here?” asked Hughes.“Danger!—how can there be? Let it blow as hard as it likes, and from what quarter it chooses, we are protected,” replied Weber, thinking only of the weather.“I meant from the natives, not from the elements,” remarked Hughes.“I know no more of Madagascar than you do,” replied the captain. “It is the first time my anchor ever had hold of the island.”“Then let me tell you, I do,” ejaculated Wyzinski. “The same circumstance which brought this bay to my knowledge, taught me that the natives here are treacherous and wily. You will have them round you before sunset.”“Let them come,” replied the sailor; “we have small arms, besides two guns.”“Do you think we can land with prudence, Wyzinski?”“I should strongly advise putting the brig in a state to resist if attacked, and the arms handy if wanted. As for landing, we might pitch our tent under the trees yonder; but I should deprecate any straggling away.”“Very well, gentlemen. I hear the boats being lowered; I am going to carry out an anchor astern, so as to moor the ship safely. The arm-chest shall be hoisted out, and placed at the foot of the mainmast. The two guns, and the small arms I will place in your charge, if you will honour me by serving as a marine, Captain Hughes.”“In which capacity the Light Infantry drill will be useless,” remarked Wyzinski, laughing.“The boats are alongside, and the men on deck, Captain Weber,” said Mr Lowe, who at that moment appeared at the cabin-door.“Very well. Get the stream-anchor into the pinnace, and rouse out a few fathoms of cable,” replied the captain.“Ay, ay, sir,” was the mate’s reply.“And, Mr Lowe,” called out the captain, “send the arm-chest on deck. Is there any one who understands an armourer’s business?”“Well, sir, there’s Jackson, who was a blacksmith’s apprentice before he ran away and joined the brig at Liverpool.”“He’ll do; place him at the disposal of Captain Hughes.”“Ay, ay, sir,” again replied the mate as he went up the hatchway.“And now, gentlemen, I must look after the brig. So soon as I have moored her head and stern, you can have one of the boats, only I can’t spare you any other hand except Jackson.”There were plenty of muskets to arm the whole crew, but they had need of much overhauling. The two guns were of respectable size, carrying a nine-pound ball; and what with the necessary cleaning, the making cartridge, and swinging the guns with their carnages, one on to the quarter-deck the other on to the forecastle, the day wore on. The man Jackson turned out a willing, handy fellow, and, understanding his business, was of great use. Neither Dom Maxara nor his daughter appeared on deck.In the meantime the stream-anchor had been dropped astern, and the cable hove upon until quite taut; the shears had been got on deck; the carpenter was busy with his axe. The remains of the fore-topmast had been removed, for it had broken off short, leaving the head of the foremast uninjured, and already the spare topmast had been swayed aloft and pointed through. The men worked cheerfully and well. Not a sign of life had been seen on shore, and with the exception of the gulls, which were wheeling and circling round the brig, and the Mother Carey’s chickens which were dipping over the boats now veered astern, all outside the vessel was perfectly still. The sound of the breaking surf came with a hollow dull thud at intervals on the breeze, which was gradually dying out, and nothing could present a greater contrast than the quiet, peaceful sheet of water, with its fringes of cocoa-palms, and beach of white shining sand, with the still waters of the bay, to the noise, bustle, and labour going on all day long on board the brig.The missionary’s fears had not been realised, and night came on quietly and serenely after a day of toil. The wind had quite died away, and the stars were shining brilliantly; indeed, so still was the air that the noise of the river could be heard as it fell into the sea, about the centre of the bay.The night was warm and oppressive, and on shore the woods seemed filled with enormous fireflies, floating here and there. They were in great quantities, and would settle on the trees, lighting them with myriads of tiny lights, and making them look like pyramids of sparkling diamonds. Some would come floating off towards the brig, the little lights dancing over her decks and settling on her rigging. The scream of the parrots among the trees had ceased, and save occasionally the quack of the ducks feeding in the river, all was still. Silence now reigned on the brig’s decks, for the day had been one of toil. The night was hot, and the men lay thrown about carelessly, wrapped in cloaks, sails, or anything they could find, among the loose spars. On her forecastle two men alone kept watch, one of whom was the mate, Mr Lowe. Aft a small awning had been rigged, and the passengers were enjoying the beautiful tropical night. Cushions had been brought up from the cabin, the smell of the Portuguese tobacco floated on the air, and the coffee-cups lay here and there. The sound of the bell forward, as a seaman rising struck four bells, came ringing over the waters. Drawing her mantilla over her, and speaking languidly and slowly, as if the dreamy influence of the tropical night affected her, Isabel broke the silence, just as the last tone of the bell quivered over the sea.“We hear none of the noises of the African plain here; all seems still and calm.”“There are no lions or noxious animals in the island,” replied the missionary. “Oxen of great size are plentiful, wild asses, and sheep with enormous tails; goats, and wild boar, too, are numerous. The sloth exists here, and I have made many a good meal on a species of bat, of which there are plenty and very good. Hedgehogs, too, and locusts are a usual dish.”“I pity the Queen of Madagascar if that’s her only food,” said Hughes, rolling a cigarette.“Oh, there is plenty other. If you choose to take a shot-gun to-morrow you will find pintado, pigeons, parrots, ducks and geese abundant, only beware of the caiman, for the rivers literally swarm with them. There are plenty of fowls, and singularly enough one of the objects of veneration is a white cock. In the mythology of the country there exists a great giant powerful for evil, called ‘Denafil,’ and all white cocks are sacred to him.”“You seem to know the country, senhor?” asked the noble.“I passed nearly twelve months there,” replied the missionary.“And promised to give us a history of your life among the Hovas. What better time than the present? That cabin is stifling, and I am sure none of us wish to go below,” said Isabel, in her silvery and persuasive tones, Dom Maxara being engaged with his cigarette, and Hughes in wishing the starlight was even brighter than it actually was, for the folds of the mantilla looked dim and indistinct under the feeble light.The missionary was silent for a few minutes as if recalling his recollections.“I cannot say I will fulfil my promise with pleasure, but I will fulfil it,” he replied. “I have already mentioned whence we sailed and how we reached this bay. The first night we landed we encamped on the banks of this very river, which is called the ‘Onglaki,’ the vessel that brought us sailing for Tamatavé. We were four missionaries under the guidance of one of our brethren, who had lately come from England, and who was named Willis.“He had been in the island before, and, as we afterwards found, his object was partly political. The queen, by her terrible cruelties, had alienated the love of her subjects, and her son, Prince Rakolo, had allied himself with a Frenchman named Lambert, who had gone to France to solicit protection and assistance in his efforts to dethrone the queen.“The Christian religion was once spread throughout the land; but now it is almost extinct, and the few Europeans left lead a life nearly, if not quite, as dissolute as the natives. Our chief’s object was to divulge and counteract the policy of the French and of Prince Rakolo; ours was to establish a mission among the Hovas at Tamanarivo. The country is rich, abounding with game of many kinds, and free from noxious animals; we journeyed along good roads towards the capital, sojourning in many villages, and carrying out our work as best we could. It is a beautiful country,” continued the Missionary; “the low lands produce a tree called by the Malgache Bavinala, with bunches of long leaves looking like a lady’s fan. This tree is very useful, for of its wood houses, plates, spoons are made; of its fibres, cloth, and a kind of linen; while its seeds give oil, and its sap when the tree is tapped produces a pleasant drink. The sagontin, or sago-tree, abounds on the plains; sandal wood and ebony are plentiful; but the tree which struck me most was the ravensara, the nuts and leaves of which perfume the air around, and from which a delicious scent is distilled. Oxen, fowls, and sheep abound; rice is cultivated, and the sugar-cane grows wild.”“And the people?” asked Isabel.“Are steeped in idleness, dissolute, and licentious. Under King Badama’s reign the English had missions in Madagascar; but these disappeared in 1830, and the country now governed by Queen Banavola is fast falling into misery and ruin. To cut a long tale short, we arrived at Tamanarivo, and were received by the queen. Her majesty’s taste is for blood, and it is said that fifteen thousand men perished in building her palace, and that thousands of people are put to death yearly by her orders. Our reception was an unfavourable one, and we were as yet in ignorance of the political nature of our leader’s mission.“The town of Tamanarivo is situated on a height; it has one long straggling street, where the houses of the richer class are situated. Here is the queen’s palace, surrounded by enormous columns in wood, brought with great labour from fabulous distances. Five thousand men were employed in transporting one single pillar, and the greater part of them died from fever and disease, caught in the low-lying forest land, where the mighty tree grew. Near the palace is the tomb of King Radama, whose intelligence was the means by which the Hovas race emerged from darkness; and near it stands a second palace, richly ornamented with silver, which sparkles in the sun, and belongs to the queen’s heir. On three sides the mountain is scarped, forming awful precipices; on the fourth it slopes gently down to the plain, and on these slopes the little houses of the poorer people are erected, and here we were assigned a hut.“Among our number was a missionary named Maurice. Young, ardent and enthusiastic, he would make no allowance for the prejudices of others, and seemed to brave death, and even court martyrdom, in his incessant endeavours to make proselytes. Strict orders had been given by the queen that we were not to prosecute our religious rites, but Maurice could not be restrained. Whilst we waited, hoping that the queen’s mood might change, our brother went forth among the people, boldly preaching the Gospel, and openly defying the queen.“He planted the cross on the heights of the mountains, he assembled the people under the forest trees, and there with the sweet odour of the ravensara floating around, he told them that cheating and lying, though taught as virtues, were in reality crimes. He told them that the souls of their chiefs were not migratory, that the crocodiles were not once men, that the good genius of the world was not Zanhahar, and the evil one Angetch, and what was a still worse crime, that the ombioche or priests were only pretended sorcerers.“He made many converts, but he raised up a host of enemies.”“You speak of him ever in the past,” remarked Hughes; “he must have been a noble fellow. Did he pay the penalty of his zeal?”“You shall hear,” continued the missionary. “One morning our hut was surrounded with soldiers, our chief, Willis, was seized, and at once sent under escort to Tamatavé. Rice, manioc, and a kind of potato peculiar to Madagascar, were supplied us, and for nearly a month we remained close prisoners. Of what was passing around us we knew nothing, but during this time the ‘ombioches,’ against whose pretensions Maurice had preached, were employed finding out all those who had attended his meetings or received him.“At the end of the thirtieth day we were led forth, as we thought, to death. In a large, empty piece of ground, near the palace, about twenty men were huddled. They were quite naked, and many of them cruelly maimed. These were the Christians, and they were surrounded by soldiers. We were placed on a height near where we could see what passed. Armed with sticks and knives, the soldiers were loosed upon the prisoners. The scene was a heart-rending one. Driven gradually towards the brink of the precipice, the screams of the terrified victims became fearful, as goaded on by the sharp knives, and the cruel thongs, one after another took the fatal leap, and the next moment lay mangled, shapeless masses on the sharp rocks below.”“Santa Maria, how terrible!” exclaimed Isabel. “I wish we were away from this horrible but beautiful island; and you, how did you escape?”“You shall hear. The massacre finished, we thought our turn come; but no, we were led back to our hut, and the next day the scene was enacted again, and this continued for eight days, until some five hundred corpses lay festering on the rocks.“The mode of punishment was however varied; for the eighth day, some of the head men were reserved for death, and these men were pinioned and placed in narrow graves, where boiling water was slowly poured over them; many were poisoned, and every day the list of the condemned was read over and approved by the queen.“The morning of the ninth day came, and we were brought forth, and conducted before the cabare or council to be judged. We were English, had come for a purpose; but we had disobeyed the queen’s command, and merited death. Satiated for the time with blood, the queen pardoned us, ordering us to leave the land. Mischief enough had been done, but it did not end here, for Maurice could not be kept quiet. Rising, he addressed the council, and he spoke the language fluently. He pointed out their errors, he exposed the fallacy of their doctrine; he grew eloquent and excited, and ended by denouncing the queen, and calling upon her head the just retribution her crimes merited. He was sentenced to death. We never saw him more; for that night we were marched towards the coast. It was the month of January, and that is the hottest month of the year in Madagascar; the deadly fever of the country ravaged the plains through which we marched, and I alone of those who pitched their tents under the trees that line the river yonder survived to tell the tale. Willis had already sailed for the Mauritius, completely foiled in his mission.”“And your poor friend, Senhor,” asked Isabel; “did you never hear of him again?”“Yes, through the agency of Monsieur Lambert, a resident in the island. There are,” continued the missionary, “three modes of death much practised at Madagascar. The one, by poison extracted from a tree, is called ‘tangui.’ This tree is so deadly that the birds avoid it, and the snakes will not go near. The poison consists of a small portion of the nut in powder. It kills in about an hour, and the agony endured is fearful. In ordinary cases it is used as an ordeal, and sometimes, when it induces vomiting, the person taking it gets better.“The second mode is by throwing the condemned into a river where the caiman abound. If he is not devoured after the third immersion, he is allowed to go free.“The third is by fastening the condemned to a rock bathed by the sea. If the waves, splashing up against the rocks, do not sprinkle any water on his body, the condemned is liberated; if a drop of water touches him, a dozen lances at once finish him.”“The last seems to me the most merciful death, though all are horrible,” said Isabel.“After we were violently separated from him, Maurice was kept guarded for twenty-four hours, without food of any kind, not even a drop of water being allowed him. His sufferings under that hot sun must have been terrible, but even then his faith was unshaken, and he made constant endeavours to convert his guards. His days and nights were passed in prayer. On the evening of the second day, he was taken to the ombachie’s hut. Here he met with the ‘sampi tanguine,’ or poisoner, and here life and liberty were offered him by the priest if he would publicly avow his errors and acknowledge their power. He was but a young man, and had lately married. He had left a wife, who was at that moment probably a mother, hoping to rejoin him. The temptation was strong, as the black poisoner stood before him with the deadly powder ready.”“And did he yield?” eagerly asked Hughes.“Not for a moment. Half an hour afterwards he was writhing on the floor of the hut in agonising convulsions, the ombachie and the ‘sampi tanguine’ standing over him. He died pardoning his persecutors, and his body was thrown over the precipice.”“Poor fellow! Madre de Dios, what a melancholy tale! And the poor wife?” asked Isabel.“I never heard,” replied Wyzinski. “A missionary should not marry, in my opinion.”“There goes eight bells, and here comes the captain to take his watch,” exclaimed Hughes.True to the old instinct, Captain Weber’s first impulse was to walk to the binnacle, and then to glance aloft at his dismantled masts and rigging.Isabel seemed struck with the missionary’s melancholy tale. She rose and took the arm of the old seaman, who looked fondly into her face as she walked by his side. The moon had not risen, but there was a strong light over the sea, and before saying good night the girl gazed over the brig’s stern at the dark line of forest land and the myriads of dancing fireflies. She then turned, but seemed struck with something. “I did not know that there were rocks in the bay,” she said, pointing to the entrance.Captain Weber did not understand French, but his eye followed the direction of the girl’s finger. There, sure enough, broad on the brig’s starboard bow lay three black points looking like rocks, but rising and falling on the waves.Dropping the girl’s arm, he ran forward. “Mr Lowe, turn the hands up, quickly and silently,” he said, in a hoarse whisper; “arm the men at once. Look handy! The Malays are upon us.”
By sunrise the following morning the gale had pretty nearly blown itself out. The heavy masses of clouds had rolled away, and a bright sun was shining on the smooth water of the bay. Outside, the ocean was still boiling and seething under the influence of the late heavy gale, but the waves, though tipped with foam, were rolling sluggishly, as if tired with their wild efforts.
The “Halcyon,” late her Majesty’s brig “Torch,” did not look by any means the same vessel that had sailed from Quillimane. Neither of her masts were wholly standing. The main-topgallant mast with yards and gear was gone; the fore-topmast with all above it had disappeared, while the bowsprit looked a naked stump, and the splintered white edge of the smashed bulwarks fully attested the violence of the ordeal she had gone through. Not a regular trader, and being fitted out for a long cruise, Captain Weber was in no hurry to make a port. Having little cargo, and that selected for trading purposes, the brig was well provided with spare spars and sails, and, with the exception of Santa Lucia Bay on the coast of Natal, a better harbour for refitting her could hardly have been found. The rigging was covered with wet clothing, shaking about in the breeze. From the able seaman’s tarpaulin and long boots to the captain’s pea-jacket, and Donna Isabel’s drenched cloak, all were there drying in the sunshine. The “Halcyon” rode with her bows to seaward, while astern lay the beach shaped like a crescent, and composed of fine sand glittering in the beams of the morning sun. The luxuriant forest growth swept down nearly to the water’s edge, and the long straight stems of the cocoa-nut trees, with their tufts of thin leaves, shot up here and there like giants from among the lower growth. The crew, with the exception of two men, had been sent below, the brig being land-locked, or nearly so, and no possible danger apprehended, and as these men had been regularly relieved during the darkness, both crew and passengers had enjoyed a good night’s repose.
It was about eight o’clock when Captain Weber appeared on the quarter-deck; walking aft, he looked at the now useless compass, and then glanced aloft, from a seaman’s habit.
“Let the men have their breakfast, Mr Lowe, comfortably, and then we’ll go to work.”
“We have a spare topmast and topgallant mast, Captain Weber; but I have been rummaging over the spars, and can find nothing that will do for the main-topgallant mast.”
“Is there any stick that will serve for a jib-boom?”
“Yes, sir; there is a spare fore-yard, which the carpenter thinks may do.”
“Very good. The moment the men have done breakfast get the boats into the water. We will carry out an anchor astern, and keep the jade a close prisoner, to teach her not to pitch the spars out of her. Call me when they are towing astern.” And Captain Weber dived down to finish his toilet.
Below, all marks of the late gale had disappeared. The steward and his mate had been busy since daylight, and the more than ordinarily comfortable though small cabin was in perfect order, when the passengers sat down at the breakfast table at nine o’clock. Of course the brig had not the slightest motion; in fact, she was as though in dock.
“Rather a difference this from yesterday, Dom Maxara,” said Wyzinski, as that nobleman appeared coming from his cabin.
“A difference for the better. Will you oblige me by explaining to our captain,” continued the old gentleman, “that my daughter, Donna Isabel, begs to be excused from joining the party? She is still suffering from the shock of late emotions.”
A ceremonious bow followed the interpretation, on the part of the Portuguese, the Englishman replying with his mouth full.
“Ay, ay, signor, and small blame to her. It is not every day the fishes get the picking of so tight a lad and thorough-bred a sailor as poor Blount.”
“How long do you propose lying here, Captain Weber?”
“A couple of days will set us all a-tanto again, and give us time to overhaul the standing and running gear.”
“I suppose there is not any danger here?” asked Hughes.
“Danger!—how can there be? Let it blow as hard as it likes, and from what quarter it chooses, we are protected,” replied Weber, thinking only of the weather.
“I meant from the natives, not from the elements,” remarked Hughes.
“I know no more of Madagascar than you do,” replied the captain. “It is the first time my anchor ever had hold of the island.”
“Then let me tell you, I do,” ejaculated Wyzinski. “The same circumstance which brought this bay to my knowledge, taught me that the natives here are treacherous and wily. You will have them round you before sunset.”
“Let them come,” replied the sailor; “we have small arms, besides two guns.”
“Do you think we can land with prudence, Wyzinski?”
“I should strongly advise putting the brig in a state to resist if attacked, and the arms handy if wanted. As for landing, we might pitch our tent under the trees yonder; but I should deprecate any straggling away.”
“Very well, gentlemen. I hear the boats being lowered; I am going to carry out an anchor astern, so as to moor the ship safely. The arm-chest shall be hoisted out, and placed at the foot of the mainmast. The two guns, and the small arms I will place in your charge, if you will honour me by serving as a marine, Captain Hughes.”
“In which capacity the Light Infantry drill will be useless,” remarked Wyzinski, laughing.
“The boats are alongside, and the men on deck, Captain Weber,” said Mr Lowe, who at that moment appeared at the cabin-door.
“Very well. Get the stream-anchor into the pinnace, and rouse out a few fathoms of cable,” replied the captain.
“Ay, ay, sir,” was the mate’s reply.
“And, Mr Lowe,” called out the captain, “send the arm-chest on deck. Is there any one who understands an armourer’s business?”
“Well, sir, there’s Jackson, who was a blacksmith’s apprentice before he ran away and joined the brig at Liverpool.”
“He’ll do; place him at the disposal of Captain Hughes.”
“Ay, ay, sir,” again replied the mate as he went up the hatchway.
“And now, gentlemen, I must look after the brig. So soon as I have moored her head and stern, you can have one of the boats, only I can’t spare you any other hand except Jackson.”
There were plenty of muskets to arm the whole crew, but they had need of much overhauling. The two guns were of respectable size, carrying a nine-pound ball; and what with the necessary cleaning, the making cartridge, and swinging the guns with their carnages, one on to the quarter-deck the other on to the forecastle, the day wore on. The man Jackson turned out a willing, handy fellow, and, understanding his business, was of great use. Neither Dom Maxara nor his daughter appeared on deck.
In the meantime the stream-anchor had been dropped astern, and the cable hove upon until quite taut; the shears had been got on deck; the carpenter was busy with his axe. The remains of the fore-topmast had been removed, for it had broken off short, leaving the head of the foremast uninjured, and already the spare topmast had been swayed aloft and pointed through. The men worked cheerfully and well. Not a sign of life had been seen on shore, and with the exception of the gulls, which were wheeling and circling round the brig, and the Mother Carey’s chickens which were dipping over the boats now veered astern, all outside the vessel was perfectly still. The sound of the breaking surf came with a hollow dull thud at intervals on the breeze, which was gradually dying out, and nothing could present a greater contrast than the quiet, peaceful sheet of water, with its fringes of cocoa-palms, and beach of white shining sand, with the still waters of the bay, to the noise, bustle, and labour going on all day long on board the brig.
The missionary’s fears had not been realised, and night came on quietly and serenely after a day of toil. The wind had quite died away, and the stars were shining brilliantly; indeed, so still was the air that the noise of the river could be heard as it fell into the sea, about the centre of the bay.
The night was warm and oppressive, and on shore the woods seemed filled with enormous fireflies, floating here and there. They were in great quantities, and would settle on the trees, lighting them with myriads of tiny lights, and making them look like pyramids of sparkling diamonds. Some would come floating off towards the brig, the little lights dancing over her decks and settling on her rigging. The scream of the parrots among the trees had ceased, and save occasionally the quack of the ducks feeding in the river, all was still. Silence now reigned on the brig’s decks, for the day had been one of toil. The night was hot, and the men lay thrown about carelessly, wrapped in cloaks, sails, or anything they could find, among the loose spars. On her forecastle two men alone kept watch, one of whom was the mate, Mr Lowe. Aft a small awning had been rigged, and the passengers were enjoying the beautiful tropical night. Cushions had been brought up from the cabin, the smell of the Portuguese tobacco floated on the air, and the coffee-cups lay here and there. The sound of the bell forward, as a seaman rising struck four bells, came ringing over the waters. Drawing her mantilla over her, and speaking languidly and slowly, as if the dreamy influence of the tropical night affected her, Isabel broke the silence, just as the last tone of the bell quivered over the sea.
“We hear none of the noises of the African plain here; all seems still and calm.”
“There are no lions or noxious animals in the island,” replied the missionary. “Oxen of great size are plentiful, wild asses, and sheep with enormous tails; goats, and wild boar, too, are numerous. The sloth exists here, and I have made many a good meal on a species of bat, of which there are plenty and very good. Hedgehogs, too, and locusts are a usual dish.”
“I pity the Queen of Madagascar if that’s her only food,” said Hughes, rolling a cigarette.
“Oh, there is plenty other. If you choose to take a shot-gun to-morrow you will find pintado, pigeons, parrots, ducks and geese abundant, only beware of the caiman, for the rivers literally swarm with them. There are plenty of fowls, and singularly enough one of the objects of veneration is a white cock. In the mythology of the country there exists a great giant powerful for evil, called ‘Denafil,’ and all white cocks are sacred to him.”
“You seem to know the country, senhor?” asked the noble.
“I passed nearly twelve months there,” replied the missionary.
“And promised to give us a history of your life among the Hovas. What better time than the present? That cabin is stifling, and I am sure none of us wish to go below,” said Isabel, in her silvery and persuasive tones, Dom Maxara being engaged with his cigarette, and Hughes in wishing the starlight was even brighter than it actually was, for the folds of the mantilla looked dim and indistinct under the feeble light.
The missionary was silent for a few minutes as if recalling his recollections.
“I cannot say I will fulfil my promise with pleasure, but I will fulfil it,” he replied. “I have already mentioned whence we sailed and how we reached this bay. The first night we landed we encamped on the banks of this very river, which is called the ‘Onglaki,’ the vessel that brought us sailing for Tamatavé. We were four missionaries under the guidance of one of our brethren, who had lately come from England, and who was named Willis.
“He had been in the island before, and, as we afterwards found, his object was partly political. The queen, by her terrible cruelties, had alienated the love of her subjects, and her son, Prince Rakolo, had allied himself with a Frenchman named Lambert, who had gone to France to solicit protection and assistance in his efforts to dethrone the queen.
“The Christian religion was once spread throughout the land; but now it is almost extinct, and the few Europeans left lead a life nearly, if not quite, as dissolute as the natives. Our chief’s object was to divulge and counteract the policy of the French and of Prince Rakolo; ours was to establish a mission among the Hovas at Tamanarivo. The country is rich, abounding with game of many kinds, and free from noxious animals; we journeyed along good roads towards the capital, sojourning in many villages, and carrying out our work as best we could. It is a beautiful country,” continued the Missionary; “the low lands produce a tree called by the Malgache Bavinala, with bunches of long leaves looking like a lady’s fan. This tree is very useful, for of its wood houses, plates, spoons are made; of its fibres, cloth, and a kind of linen; while its seeds give oil, and its sap when the tree is tapped produces a pleasant drink. The sagontin, or sago-tree, abounds on the plains; sandal wood and ebony are plentiful; but the tree which struck me most was the ravensara, the nuts and leaves of which perfume the air around, and from which a delicious scent is distilled. Oxen, fowls, and sheep abound; rice is cultivated, and the sugar-cane grows wild.”
“And the people?” asked Isabel.
“Are steeped in idleness, dissolute, and licentious. Under King Badama’s reign the English had missions in Madagascar; but these disappeared in 1830, and the country now governed by Queen Banavola is fast falling into misery and ruin. To cut a long tale short, we arrived at Tamanarivo, and were received by the queen. Her majesty’s taste is for blood, and it is said that fifteen thousand men perished in building her palace, and that thousands of people are put to death yearly by her orders. Our reception was an unfavourable one, and we were as yet in ignorance of the political nature of our leader’s mission.
“The town of Tamanarivo is situated on a height; it has one long straggling street, where the houses of the richer class are situated. Here is the queen’s palace, surrounded by enormous columns in wood, brought with great labour from fabulous distances. Five thousand men were employed in transporting one single pillar, and the greater part of them died from fever and disease, caught in the low-lying forest land, where the mighty tree grew. Near the palace is the tomb of King Radama, whose intelligence was the means by which the Hovas race emerged from darkness; and near it stands a second palace, richly ornamented with silver, which sparkles in the sun, and belongs to the queen’s heir. On three sides the mountain is scarped, forming awful precipices; on the fourth it slopes gently down to the plain, and on these slopes the little houses of the poorer people are erected, and here we were assigned a hut.
“Among our number was a missionary named Maurice. Young, ardent and enthusiastic, he would make no allowance for the prejudices of others, and seemed to brave death, and even court martyrdom, in his incessant endeavours to make proselytes. Strict orders had been given by the queen that we were not to prosecute our religious rites, but Maurice could not be restrained. Whilst we waited, hoping that the queen’s mood might change, our brother went forth among the people, boldly preaching the Gospel, and openly defying the queen.
“He planted the cross on the heights of the mountains, he assembled the people under the forest trees, and there with the sweet odour of the ravensara floating around, he told them that cheating and lying, though taught as virtues, were in reality crimes. He told them that the souls of their chiefs were not migratory, that the crocodiles were not once men, that the good genius of the world was not Zanhahar, and the evil one Angetch, and what was a still worse crime, that the ombioche or priests were only pretended sorcerers.
“He made many converts, but he raised up a host of enemies.”
“You speak of him ever in the past,” remarked Hughes; “he must have been a noble fellow. Did he pay the penalty of his zeal?”
“You shall hear,” continued the missionary. “One morning our hut was surrounded with soldiers, our chief, Willis, was seized, and at once sent under escort to Tamatavé. Rice, manioc, and a kind of potato peculiar to Madagascar, were supplied us, and for nearly a month we remained close prisoners. Of what was passing around us we knew nothing, but during this time the ‘ombioches,’ against whose pretensions Maurice had preached, were employed finding out all those who had attended his meetings or received him.
“At the end of the thirtieth day we were led forth, as we thought, to death. In a large, empty piece of ground, near the palace, about twenty men were huddled. They were quite naked, and many of them cruelly maimed. These were the Christians, and they were surrounded by soldiers. We were placed on a height near where we could see what passed. Armed with sticks and knives, the soldiers were loosed upon the prisoners. The scene was a heart-rending one. Driven gradually towards the brink of the precipice, the screams of the terrified victims became fearful, as goaded on by the sharp knives, and the cruel thongs, one after another took the fatal leap, and the next moment lay mangled, shapeless masses on the sharp rocks below.”
“Santa Maria, how terrible!” exclaimed Isabel. “I wish we were away from this horrible but beautiful island; and you, how did you escape?”
“You shall hear. The massacre finished, we thought our turn come; but no, we were led back to our hut, and the next day the scene was enacted again, and this continued for eight days, until some five hundred corpses lay festering on the rocks.
“The mode of punishment was however varied; for the eighth day, some of the head men were reserved for death, and these men were pinioned and placed in narrow graves, where boiling water was slowly poured over them; many were poisoned, and every day the list of the condemned was read over and approved by the queen.
“The morning of the ninth day came, and we were brought forth, and conducted before the cabare or council to be judged. We were English, had come for a purpose; but we had disobeyed the queen’s command, and merited death. Satiated for the time with blood, the queen pardoned us, ordering us to leave the land. Mischief enough had been done, but it did not end here, for Maurice could not be kept quiet. Rising, he addressed the council, and he spoke the language fluently. He pointed out their errors, he exposed the fallacy of their doctrine; he grew eloquent and excited, and ended by denouncing the queen, and calling upon her head the just retribution her crimes merited. He was sentenced to death. We never saw him more; for that night we were marched towards the coast. It was the month of January, and that is the hottest month of the year in Madagascar; the deadly fever of the country ravaged the plains through which we marched, and I alone of those who pitched their tents under the trees that line the river yonder survived to tell the tale. Willis had already sailed for the Mauritius, completely foiled in his mission.”
“And your poor friend, Senhor,” asked Isabel; “did you never hear of him again?”
“Yes, through the agency of Monsieur Lambert, a resident in the island. There are,” continued the missionary, “three modes of death much practised at Madagascar. The one, by poison extracted from a tree, is called ‘tangui.’ This tree is so deadly that the birds avoid it, and the snakes will not go near. The poison consists of a small portion of the nut in powder. It kills in about an hour, and the agony endured is fearful. In ordinary cases it is used as an ordeal, and sometimes, when it induces vomiting, the person taking it gets better.
“The second mode is by throwing the condemned into a river where the caiman abound. If he is not devoured after the third immersion, he is allowed to go free.
“The third is by fastening the condemned to a rock bathed by the sea. If the waves, splashing up against the rocks, do not sprinkle any water on his body, the condemned is liberated; if a drop of water touches him, a dozen lances at once finish him.”
“The last seems to me the most merciful death, though all are horrible,” said Isabel.
“After we were violently separated from him, Maurice was kept guarded for twenty-four hours, without food of any kind, not even a drop of water being allowed him. His sufferings under that hot sun must have been terrible, but even then his faith was unshaken, and he made constant endeavours to convert his guards. His days and nights were passed in prayer. On the evening of the second day, he was taken to the ombachie’s hut. Here he met with the ‘sampi tanguine,’ or poisoner, and here life and liberty were offered him by the priest if he would publicly avow his errors and acknowledge their power. He was but a young man, and had lately married. He had left a wife, who was at that moment probably a mother, hoping to rejoin him. The temptation was strong, as the black poisoner stood before him with the deadly powder ready.”
“And did he yield?” eagerly asked Hughes.
“Not for a moment. Half an hour afterwards he was writhing on the floor of the hut in agonising convulsions, the ombachie and the ‘sampi tanguine’ standing over him. He died pardoning his persecutors, and his body was thrown over the precipice.”
“Poor fellow! Madre de Dios, what a melancholy tale! And the poor wife?” asked Isabel.
“I never heard,” replied Wyzinski. “A missionary should not marry, in my opinion.”
“There goes eight bells, and here comes the captain to take his watch,” exclaimed Hughes.
True to the old instinct, Captain Weber’s first impulse was to walk to the binnacle, and then to glance aloft at his dismantled masts and rigging.
Isabel seemed struck with the missionary’s melancholy tale. She rose and took the arm of the old seaman, who looked fondly into her face as she walked by his side. The moon had not risen, but there was a strong light over the sea, and before saying good night the girl gazed over the brig’s stern at the dark line of forest land and the myriads of dancing fireflies. She then turned, but seemed struck with something. “I did not know that there were rocks in the bay,” she said, pointing to the entrance.
Captain Weber did not understand French, but his eye followed the direction of the girl’s finger. There, sure enough, broad on the brig’s starboard bow lay three black points looking like rocks, but rising and falling on the waves.
Dropping the girl’s arm, he ran forward. “Mr Lowe, turn the hands up, quickly and silently,” he said, in a hoarse whisper; “arm the men at once. Look handy! The Malays are upon us.”