Mostyn was the first to board the succouring craft. Somewhat dubious as to the nature of his reception, he swarmed up the low side and gained the deck.
His arrival elicited no demonstrations, either of friendliness or hostility, from the white-robed Arabs. They simply looked at him without visible signs of curiosity; without even the formal salaam.
There were five of the dhow's crew. Four, who had been attending to the lowering of the sails, were standing amidships; the fifth, a mild-looking, bearded man of more than average height, was at the long, curved tiller. Save for his swarthy skin he might have passed for a European, for his features were regular, his nose aquiline, and his lips red and without the fullness of the typical African. He wore the white "jebbah" and burnous, the only dash of colour being his red Morocco slippers. In his white sash could be seen the leather-covered hilt of a long knife.
"English," explained Peter. "Wrecked—want passage."
The Arab shook his head gravely, and motioned to Mostyn to get the rest of the boat's party on board.
"Mahmed!" sang out his master.
"Sahib?"
"You speak Swahili. Tell this man who we are and what we want."
Mahmed came over the side and approached the Arab captain. Apparently the former's attempt to speak Swahili was far from fluent, but the desired result was obtained.
"He for Dar-es-Salaam, Sahib," explained Mahmed "He promise passage one hundred rupees a head."
"He'll get it," replied Peter. "We'll give him one thousand rupees if he puts into Pangawani."
The Arab rejected the amendment. He was willing enough to give them a passage, but he was not going to put into an intermediate port even for the inducement of an addition three hundred rupees.
Preston was the next to board the dhow. He managed it practically unaided, for his lower limbs were regaining strength, and he was able to use his left arm. The Arabs showed considerable interest at his bandaged head, the captain going to the length of inquiring of Mahmed how the injuries were caused.
Mrs. Shallop and Olive followed.
The two lascars completed the transhipment. They brought with them the scanty personal belongings of the party, together with the water-beaker and the rest of the provisions.
"Tell him we are ready to cast off," said Peter.
Mahmed translated. The Arab skipper went to the side and cast envious looks at the boat, for from the deck of the dhow the damaged planking was not visible. With an instinct not confined to dhow-owners he was loth to abandon a craft that Providence had figuratively thrust into his hands; but upon consideration he was compelled to admit that the gift was too unwieldy. Nevertheless, since he was unable to make use of the boat, he was determined not to give others a chance of so doing.
At his order a couple of Arabs, armed with knives and small-headed axes, jumped into the boat. After removing the compass, oars, masts, and remaining sails, and all other loose gear, they cut the gunwale through to the water-line, regaining their own craft as the water poured through the jagged rent. The painter was cut as close to the boat as it was possible for a man to reach from the dhow, and theWest Barbican'sboat, her mission accomplished nobly in spite of difficulties, drifted slowly astern in a water-logged condition. Then, the lateen sails rehoisted, the dhow resumed her course, hauling close to the wind on the starboard tack, her head pointing practically nor'-west-by-north. For the best part of an hour the survivors of theWest Barbicanremained on deck, no attempt being made on the part of the Arabs to offer them accommodation and shelter below. The captain had handed over the helm to one of the crew, and with the other three men was squatting on the deck. There was apparently no social distinction between the Arab skipper and his crew. They were eatingpilaufrom a common dish, and talking loudly, as if oblivious of the presence of the "Kafirs" and the three Moslem members of the rescued party.
At length Peter thought it was time to assert himself on behalf of his companions. It was scant comfort to have to grill upon the deck of the dhow, for the sails provided little shelter from the fierce rays of the sun.
Calling to Mahmed to accompany him, Mostyn made for the short ladder giving access to the steeply shelving poop.
Seeing Peter's intention the Arab captain stood up and warned the intruder off, at the same time talking angrily to the Indian interpreter.
"Tell the accursed Kafir not to set foot upon the ladder," was what he said, but translated by Mahmed the message was, "The sahib is kindly asked not to approach while the crew are having a meal."
Which was unfortunate. Out of deference to Arab customs Peter complied with the request. The captain took it for a sign of weakness on the Englishman's part. Had Mahmed translated literally, Mostyn would have been on his guard. It would have been clear that the Arab had not any intention of setting the party ashore at Dar-es-Salaam or at any other port where the British flag was flying, otherwise he would never have dared to insult a man who was quite capable of turning the tables on him on arrival at a place within the sphere of British influence.
Mostyn waited more or less patiently until thepilau-eating party had broken up. Then he again approached the Arab skipper, who was now standing at the head of the poop ladder.
The Arab avoided a reply to the direct request for shelter by demanding immediate payment of the seven hundred rupees.
"Tell him," said Peter, "that the money will be paid directly we arrive at Dar-es-Salaam."
A faint smile fluttered over the Arab's olivine features.
"Has the Kafir the money with him?" he asked.
"That has nothing to do with the bargain," replied Peter, through his interpreter. "He will be paid promptly and in full when he has carried out his part of the deal, but for that sum we must have suitable accommodation."
For a while the Arab looked decidedly sulky. Then, with another smile, he gave a perfunctory salaam and shouted an order to two of his crew.
The latter promptly disappeared under the poopdeck, where they spent some time shifting gear from one place to another.
When at length they reappeared, the captain led Mostyn to a fairly spacious but low-roofed cabin on the port side of the dhow, and immediately abaft the poop bulkhead.
"That will do for the women," thought Peter. "Now for a place where we can sling our hammocks."
His request through Mahmed for additional accommodation was curtly turned down on the score that it was impossible. Already two of the Arabs had been turned out of their quarters to make room for the Kafirs.
"We won't kick up a shine over that," decided Peter. "Preston and I can have a shelter on deck. We have a right to make use of our own sails. I suppose the women will be safe down here? No lock on the door, but I can show Olive how to jamb it with the blade of an oar. Now there are the lascars to fix up."
That difficulty was quickly settled, the two lascars agreeing to the Arab's suggestion that they should take possession of a small cuddy for'ard, access to which was gained by a small, square hatch just for'ard of the raking foremast. Mahmed, at his own request, was to remain with his master and Preston.
Olive and Mrs. Shallop were duly shown the quarters assigned to them. The latter, for a wonder, raised no objection to the place. Peter could not help thinking that perhaps her overbearing nature had been thoroughly cowed by the rebuff she had met with on re-embarking in the boat.
It was Olive who took exception to the place.
"I think, if you don't mind," she said, "I'll get you to rig me up a shelter on deck. It's rather stuffy down there for two. You have no objection, I hope, Mrs. Shallop?"
"Not in the least," replied the lady loftily. "It's nothing to do with me. You can please yourself."
"Thank you," said the girl promptly.
Peter concurred. Although he was curious to know why Olive should have objection to the cabin—it had been swept out—he refrained from asking why. He could only come to the conclusion that Olive was reluctant to be in her late employer's company more than was actually necessary.
"It was stuffy down there," declared the girl. "No scuttle—I'd much prefer a canvas screen on deck."
The rest of the day passed uneventfully. About four in the afternoon land was seen broad on the starboard beam. What land it was Peter had no idea. The Arabs were silent upon the subject. Preston could advance no suggestion beyond the theory that it might be Cape St. Mary, on the southernmost extremity of Madagascar.
"If so, old man, we were all out of it," he added. "On the course we were steering we would have missed the whole island. Strange things happen at sea."
At sunset the Arab crew turned their faces towards Mecca and prostrated themselves on the deck. In their acts of devotion they were joined by the lascars.
"Black heathens!" snorted Mrs. Shallop contemptuously, laughing loudly.
It was the act of an uneducated fool. People of that type, both male and female, have done so before to-day, often with serious results to themselves and others.
"For Heaven's sake shut up!" hissed Preston apprehensively. "You may get a knife across your throat for this."
Peter too felt far from comfortable when the Arabs regained their feet. There could not have been the slightest doubt that they had heard the mocking laugh, and had there been trouble the lascars would have held aloof, or even have sided with their co-religionists. But, grave and inscrutable, the crew of the dhow carried on as if the unseemly interruption was beneath their notice.
"I think I'll keep watch to-night after this," said Peter.
"P'raps 'twould be as well," agreed Preston. "That woman is a perfect curse—I'm not much use, but I'll take a trick. If there's any sign of mischief I can give you a shout. Got your automatic handy?"
"Rather."
"Pity you hadn't shown it, off-handed like," continued the Acting Chief. "A little moral persuasion of that description goes a long way with these gentry. I remember once getting into a jolly tight corner at Port Said. It was my own fault to a great extent, but I was only an irresponsible 'prentice in those days. I shifted a dozen low-down Arabs with the stem of a pipe. They thought it was a six-shooter. It's as likely as not that our friend the skipper has spotted that bulge in your hip pocket."
"And taken it for a purse with a thousand rupees in it," added Peter. "Yes, I think I'll have to keep my weather eye lifting."
Preston and the Wireless Officer had rigged up a canvas shelter amidships, spreading the covering ridge-wise on a gantline stretched between the mainmast and the for'ard end of the hatch. The hatch was a large one, measuring roughly thirty feet by ten, and was covered with canvas held down by bamboo battens. This, with the tent, took up the greater part of the deck space amidships.
Farther aft, but on the centre line, a tent made from the boat's mizzen sail had been set up for Olive's use. Provided the weather remained fairly quiet it formed quite a sheltered and comfortable retreat.
The Arab captain had raised no objections to the execution of this plan, although it had been carried out without his sanction. Peter and Mahmed had set up the shelters without any hesitation. The former was, indeed, prepared to assert his right to do so in consideration of the fact that he had not pressed his claim for more accommodation under the poop-deck.
It was late before Mostyn turned in. For quite an hour he had stood on deck with Olive, watching the moon sinking lower and lower in the heavens until it dipped beneath the horizon.
Peter gave no hint to the girl of his misgivings, nor did Olive refer to her reasons for refusing to share the cabin with Mrs. Shallop. After all, knowing the lady, he was not surprised at the cultured girl's reluctance to be in her company more than was absolutely necessary.
At about ten o'clock Peter bade the girl good night. Creeping in under the flap of his shelter he found Preston fast asleep on one side of the deck-space and Mahmed, equally somnolent, lying right across the entrance. He stirred as Peter made his way over him, but instantly fell asleep again.
"Fortunately I'm not sleepy," thought Mostyn, as he settled himself upon his share of the rough bedding, which consisted of oilskin coats and a rafia mat.
On deck all was quiet, save for the occasional creaking of the blocks and the ripple of water at the dhow's bows. With the exception of the helmsman the Arab crew had gone below before Peter had retired to his shelter-tent. The lascars had also retired to their assigned quarters for'ard.
The night was calm and sultry. At twelve the solitary watch on deck was relieved; it apparently being the custom on board the dhow for the helmsmen to work three hour-tricks both by day and night.
Peter heard the two men talking for a few minutes in a low tone; then the Arab off duty went below, his slippers pattering softly on the deck.
Another hour passed. Nothing of an unusual nature happened. Mostyn began to wonder whether his precautions had been in vain. He was feeling a bit sleepy by this time, but he had no desire to arouse his injured companion. He was content to take Preston's word for the deed, but if he were to keep awake he simply must have some fresh air.
With this purpose in view Peter crept cautiously across the sleeping Mahmed, drew aside the flap of the tent, and gained the open air. It was now a fairly bright starlit night. The cool breeze thrummed tunefully through the scanty rigging, gently filling the huge, triangular, lateen sails. The foot of the mainsail was cut so low that from where Mostyn stood, just abaft of the foremast, the shelving poop was hidden from view.
Bareheaded and lightly-clad he grasped one of the weather-shrouds and drunk in great draughts of the ozone-laden air. He realized the relief of being no longer responsible for the safety of his charges, so far as seamanship and navigation were concerned. Day after day, night after night in an open boat had considerably dimmed his ardour for exercising command.
After a while he wanted a cigarette, but remembered that he had left his share in the breast-pocket of his drill tunic.
"Better be turning in again," he soliloquized, with visions of malaria in his mind. "It's rather a risky game hanging about here."
Even as he turned to regain the shelter a shriek rent the air. Less than ten feet from where he stood were a couple of Arabs kneeling beside the collapsed tent. One was holding the canvas down with hands and feet, while the other, knife in hand, was raining furious blows upon the defenceless and sleeping men pinned beneath.
A mad fury seized upon the Wireless Officer. Without giving a thought to the automatic pistol in his hip-pocket he hurled himself upon the treacherous Arabs.
Strong, agile, and carrying weight, his sudden and unexpected onslaught took the pair as completely by surprise as their murderous attack had taken their victims.
With a crashing blow from his left Peter felled the fellow with the knife, stretching him insensible upon the deck and hurling the glittering steel into the lee scuppers.
So headlong had been Mostyn's rush that its impetus proved his undoing. His foot caught in the folds of the canvas. He tripped across the limp and inert body of one of the occupants of the overturned tent, and with a dull thud he measured his length upon the deck.
He regained his feet quickly, but not before the second Arab had recovered from the shock of the unexpected diversion. The next moment Peter and the Arab were wrestling furiously.
With a mighty heave the Wireless Officer swung his lithe and muscular antagonist from the deck, but the Arab's fingers were gripping Peter's throat in a sinuous and tenacious hold. Swaying, turning in short circles, the two combatants struggled. It was a question of who should be able to hold out longest—the Englishman with his windpipe almost closed or the Arab with his ribs strained almost to bursting-point and his lungs as empty as a deflated tyre.
Once Peter swung the Arab round in the pious hope that he might crash his opponent's head against the mast, but the fellow, although on the point of suffocation, contrived to turn aside. Then with a sudden movement he released his grip on the Englishman's throat, transferring his attention to Mostyn's eyes.
Peter's fairly long hair afforded a secure hold for the Arab's fingers, while his thumb slithered down Mostyn's forehead preparatory to the typically Arab trick of gouging out his opponent's eyes.
"Would you?" spluttered Peter.
Releasing his hold of his foeman's body, he put a rallying effort into a terrific uppercut. The blow was well-timed. The Arab was simply lifted from the deck. His arms outstretched, his fingers still grasping a generous helping of Peter's hair, he described a perfect parabola, Arab Number Two thudded unconscious upon the deck by the side of his previously vanquished compatriot.
Dazed and breathless, Peter strove to recharge his lungs. He was barely conscious of the blood flowing from the raw patches whence his hair had been uprooted. It was his throat that pained terribly. He seemed still to feel the claw-like fingers pressing remorselessly into his windpipe. Every gasp of air rasped his lacerated tongue, which, in his imagination at least, had swollen until it threatened to complete the choking process that his opponent had failed to achieve.
The respite, agonizing though it was, was a short one. A warning cry—whence it came Peter knew not—put him on the alert.
Approaching with swift, cat-like movements were two more Arabs, one of whom was the captain of the dhow. The latter had a knife in his hand, its long blade shimmering in the starlight. The other fellow, although he wore a knife in his sash, relied upon an iron bar as a weapon of offence.
For the first time during the encounter Peter remembered his automatic. The thought gave him confidence for the renewed struggle, but his fingers, trembling with the muscular reaction, fumbled as he drew the pistol from his pocket.
He was a fraction of a second too late. Before he had time to level the weapon the Arab with the bar dealt him a terrific, flail-like blow. Stepping aside and stooping, Peter avoided the swing of the weapon by a hairbreadth, but the automatic was struck from his grasp and flew half a dozen yards along the deck.
The Arab, carried half-round by the impetus of the swing of the bar, finished up by dealing the captain a heavy blow upon the wrist that caused him to drop the knife.
Instantly Peter saw and seized his opportunity. Grasping the Arab sailor round the waist he advanced upon the captain, using the former as a shield and battering-ram.
Retrieving the knife with his left hand, the skipper of the dhow advanced cautiously, to be confronted at every approach by the struggling, helpless form of his compatriot.
TWO TO ONETWO TO ONE
TWO TO ONETWO TO ONE
It was a strenuous task for Mostyn. Already sorely tried by his previous and successful combat, he realized that the unequal struggle could not last much longer. The weighty and frantically kicking Arab was surely wearing out his last remaining strength, while the comparatively uninjured captain was awaiting his opportunity of rushing in and knifing the exhausted Englishman.
Peter had "seen red", now he was beginning to "see white", for a mist swam in front of his eyes. He felt his knees giving way under him. He was no longer able to hold his human buckler clear of the deck, and the Arab's bare heels were beating an erratic tattoo on the planks.
Seizing his chance, the Arab captain sprang. The steel glittered in the starlight. Peter could see that. He braced himself to receive the stroke, when a dazzling reddish flash stabbed the air, followed almost simultaneously by a loud report.
As far as Peter was concerned the fight was finished. He lay unconscious on the deck, sandwiched between his living buckler and the body of the treacherous captain of the dhow.
A violent slatting of canvas was the first comprehensible sound that greeted Peter's ears as he began to recover his senses.
He opened his eyes and stared perplexedly at a light. It came from a familiar object—the boat's lamp. He could not understand why the sails were shaking, unless for some reason the boat had been allowed to run up into the wind, which was great carelessness on some one's part, he reflected.
Yet, somehow, he wasn't in theWest Barbican'sboat, but on the deck of something far more spacious.
He tried to sit up. The movement was a failure, resulting in a throbbing pain in the region of "Adam's apple". Remaining quiet for a few minutes he racked his bewildered brains to find a solution to the mystery.
He was lying on his left side, his head supported on a folded coat. His forehead was bound round with a wet cloth. Why he knew not. It wasn't his head but his neck that was giving him pain.
And what was the boat's lantern doing there?
Then he became aware of a hand touching him lightly on the forehead. He recoiled at the touch, and, turning his head, saw Olive kneeling on the deck beside him.
"Hello!" he exclaimed feebly. "Where am I?"
"Still on the dhow," replied the girl. "You—we—are all right now."
"Are we?" rejoined Peter, still mystified. "Why is she run up into the wind? Can you give me a drink of water?"
Mostyn drank with difficulty. The liquid was refreshing to his parched tongue and lips, although it was a painful task to swallow. Then he looked at the girl again.
Her face was deathly pale, even in the yellow glare of the lantern. She was bareheaded, her hair, loosely plaited, falling over her shoulders. There were dark patches on the hem of her badly worn skirt.
Then in a flash Mostyn remembered everything up to the time when he had lost consciousness—the treacherous attack upon his sleeping companions, his double fight against the four Arabs. Where were they now?
He staggered to his feet, and would have fallen promptly had not Olive held him up. Carefully she piloted him to the coaming of the hatch.
Although Peter's bodily strength was slow of recovery his brain was rapidly regaining its normal functions. Seated on the hatch, with the cool breeze fanning his face, he was able to take stock of his surroundings.
The dhow was not under control. Her lateen foresail was aback. The masterless tiller was swaying to and fro as the vessel gathered stern way.
Close to the mainmast were the disordered folds of the tent, on which lay the motionless forms of Preston and Mahmed. Reclining against the short poop-ladder was Mrs. Shallop, her brawny arms bared to the elbow, and her black hair grotesquely awry. Peter could have sworn that she was wearing a wig.
Neither the two lascars nor the Arabs were to be seen, but the disordered, blood-stained deck bore traces of the desperate fight, while lying close to the fife-rail of the foremast was Mostyn's automatic.
"Are they dead?" inquired the Wireless Officer, pointing to the bodies of the Acting Chief and Mahmed. Somehow he could not bring himself to mention them by name.
"Mr. Preston's got a knife-thrust in the shoulder," replied Olive. "Mahmed has half a dozen wounds, but he's still living. We dressed their injuries as well as we could—Mrs. Shallop and I."
"And where are the lascars?"
"Locked in for'ard," announced the girl. "We thought we would let them stop there a bit until we sorted things out. The Arabs? Mrs. Shallop attended to them. I helped a bit. She wanted to throw them overboard. We lowered them into the after hold—all five."
Peter swallowed another draught of water. He suspected, not without reason, that he presented a pretty sight in the starlight. His shirt had been split across both shoulders, his right knee showed through a long rent in his trousers. His hair was matted with dried blood; his face was scratched and his neck swollen and purple-coloured. In addition, he was bespattered with the blood of at least one of his vanquished antagonists.
"We may as well release the lascars," he said "It's about time we got the dhow under control."
Together Olive and Peter went for'ard and cut the lashings that secured the forepeak hatch. It was quite a considerable time before the lascars summoned up courage to appear, not knowing what had happened, although they had heard the struggle and guessed what was taking place. Fortunately they guessed wrongly. They were not in the power of the ferocious Arabs, and their relief was plain when they realized that Mostyn Sahib was still in command.
Fortunately both men were acquainted with the management of a dhow. The foresail was filled and the helm put up, and once more the unwieldy craft was set upon her course.
There was little or nothing to be done for Preston and Mahmed. The former had recovered consciousness, having sustained a clean cut in the shoulder. It was Peter's servant who had borne the brunt of the initial attack, the Arabs, ignorant of his presence in the tent, having been under the impression that they were knifing his master.
Already Olive and Mrs. Shallop had washed their wounds and bandaged them with the cleanest linen obtainable, which happened to be the burnous of the Arab captain.
"Now you must sleep, Peter," said the girl authoritatively, after Mostyn had done his best for the dhow and her new crew. "You'll be fit for nothing to-morrow if you don't. No, I won't tell you anything more now. We'll be quite all right."
Mostyn obeyed the mandate. Apart from being utterly fatigued he rather liked being ordered about by the self-possessed and capable girl. In default of suitable bedding and covering, for the well-tried sail had been hacked almost to shreds, he stretched himself on a clear space of deck and was soon sleeping the sleep of exhaustion.
When Peter awoke it was broad daylight. Olive was not to be seen, but Mrs. Shallop had evidently been asserting herself—this time to good purpose; for, strange to relate, she was at the helm, while the lascars were engaged upon the finishing touches of "squaring up" the deck.
All traces of the encounter had been removed, and the planks had been scrubbed and washed down. Preston and Mahmed had been carried into one of the cabins under the poop-deck, where already the Arabs' former quarters had been "swept and garnished".
Seeing Peter stir, Mrs. Shallop threw him a curt greeting, with the additional advice that if he went aft he would find something to eat.
Mostyn took the hint. He was feeling peckish. As he stooped to clear the break of the poop he heard the woman shouting to the lascars to "get a move on, as I don't want to hang on here no longer than I can help"—a contradiction of terms which, however, had the desired effect upon those for whom it was intended.
In the aft cabin Peter found Olive presiding over a charcoal brazier and a brass coffee-pot, from which fragrant and almost forgotten odours were issuing. The dhow's larder had been raided, with the additional discovery of dates, dried goat's-flesh, bread, and several commodities of doubtful origin.
Peter enjoyed the meal immensely in spite of his inflamed gullet. Then, over a cigarette, he heard Olive's account of her part in the desperate fight.
It appeared that the Arabs failed through a lack of concentration in their initial attack. Instead of four of them dealing with Peter and Preston (one of the crew had to be at the helm) two crept towards the tent in which the Acting Chief and Mahmed were sleeping while a third secured the hatch over the lascars, and the fourth directed his attention upon the cabin in which Mrs. Shallop had taken up her abode.
Awakened by the uproar, Olive slipped out of her shelter, and hid in the angle made by the rise of the poop and the adjoining bulwark. The place was not only in shadow; it was hidden from the view of the Arab at the helm.
Horror-stricken, the girl watched the drama until she saw that Peter had thrown himself upon the would-be assassins. Up to that moment she had thought that he was struggling under the folds of the overthrown tent.
Then horror gave place to a strange fascination as she followed Mostyn's plucky and desperate struggle against the two Arabs. She wanted to go to his aid, but her limbs refused the dictates of her brain, apart from the fact that she was without a weapon of any description.
As in a hideous dream she saw the Wireless Officer struggle until he had overcome his antagonists, only to be attacked by the captain of the dhow and the Arab who had returned from his task of securing the lascars.
The period of trance-like inaction passed. Olive stole stealthily towards the three combatants with the desperate intention of throwing herself upon the captain, as he manoeuvred for an opening. She saw the iron bar descend and Peter's automatic slither along the deck. The Arabs, too intent upon settling with the Englishman, paid no attention to the little weapon.
Swiftly the girl grasped the automatic. Even in her haste she remembered to release the safety-catch and to see that there was a cartridge in the breech.
Levelling the pistol she pressed the trigger. The Arab captain threw up his arms and staggered upon the almost exhausted Peter, bearing him to the deck together with the fellow whom he had used as a human shield.
Still at a loss as to the outcome of the fight, Olive waited, finger on trigger, watching the writhing forms almost at her feet. Presently the Arab sailor extricated himself and fumbled for the knife in his sash.
Again the pistol cracked, and the fellow collapsed in a limp heap across the body of the captain of the dhow.
Checking her almost irresistible inclination to ascertain whether Peter was dead or alive, the girl made her way aft, remembering that there were five Arabs and that only four had been accounted for.
A loud, very masculine-like voice, uttering a string of curses that would have done credit to a Thames bargee, greeted Olive's ears. As she stooped to clear the low poop she was just in time to see Mrs. Shallop deliver a clean and beautifully timed punch on the point of the Arab's jaw. The luckless fellow, lifted completely off his feet, crashed heavily against the bulkhead and slithered limply upon the deck.
This much Olive saw by the aid of a horn lantern hanging from the deck-beam. Then, as Mrs. Shallop turned, the girl was also aware that there was a knife sticking into the woman's left shoulder.
Olive offered her assistance. Mrs. Shallop, seemingly aware of the knife for the first time, waved her back.
"Nothing to make a song about," she protested in a gruff voice. "When I want your help I'll ask for it—not before."
And with this ungracious refusal Mrs. Shallop went back into her cabin and shut the door; leaving Olive, feeling considerably bewildered now that the reaction was setting in, standing close to the unconscious Arab.
It was some moments before she pulled herself together sufficiently to go on deck. By this time the dhow had run up into the wind and was gathering sternway with her lateen foresail aback. Olive hardly heeded the fact. Her first care was to ascertain whether any of the three were still living.
Peter looked a ghastly sight, a generous portion of his hair torn out by the roots and blood trickling down his forehead.
A hasty examination showed that he was still alive and apparently without serious injury. Olive washed the stains from his face and rested his head on an improvised pillow. Then she went to the assistance of Preston and Mahmed.
With difficulty she removed the collapsed tent, for in the mêlée the Acting Chief had rolled over upon the folds of the canvas. He too looked a pretty object, for the old wounds on his head had reopened, while in addition he had been stabbed. Olive deftly dressed the injuries and turned to Mahmed.
She did not know what to make of the Indian boy. He was so chipped about that she was unaware whether he was alive or dead.
Olive was still engaged in doing her best to patch Mahmed up when Mrs. Shallop appeared upon the scene. Somehow she had contrived to put a dressing over her wound, although it must have been a difficult task to tie the knot that held the bandage in position.
"Bit of a mess, ain't it?" she remarked. "We'd best clean up a bit. How about heaving those blacks overboard?"
"Are they all dead?" asked the girl.
"Not a bit of it," was the unconcerned reply. "But they soon will be, so overboard with them."
"No," declared Olive firmly. "It's not right—it's murder."
"It would have been murder for us if they hadn't knuckled under," rejoined Mrs. Shallop. "When they come to their senses there'll be more trouble, you mark my words."
Olive glanced in the direction of the Arab captain. Already he was showing signs of returning consciousness.
"What's that hatch under the poop, close to your cabin?" she asked.
"How on earth should I know?" retorted Mrs. Shallop. "It's no odds to me what it is."
The girl went aft, lifted the hatch, and lowered the lantern into the cavernous depths. The place was an after-hold, its for'ard end terminating in a strong transverse bulkhead, while the curved timbers and raking sternpost comprised the remaining walls.
"We'll lower the Arabs down that hatch," declared Olive firmly, when she rejoined her companion. "They'll be safe enough in there."
"No; overboard with them," persisted Mrs. Shallop.
"You'll be tried for murder on the high seas if you do," continued Olive.
The threat caused the woman's blood-thirsty schemes to evaporate.
"All right, then," she conceded grudgingly.
With very little assistance Mrs. Shallop dragged the unresisting forms of the five Arabs aft, after searching them in a very methodical fashion for concealed arms. This done, she passed a rope round each Arab in turn and lowered him into the hold; while at Olive's suggestion a stone jar filled with water was placed in their prison.
"Guess they'll be scared stiff when they come to," was Mrs. Shallop's grim comment, as she closed and secured the hatch. "Where's any food? That job's made me feel quite peckish."
She disappeared into her cabin, while Olive, left to her own resources, began her watch and ward by the side of the still unconscious Wireless Officer.
Three days later the dhow was bowling along up the Mozambique Channel with the Madagascar coast showing broad on the starboard beam.
Peter was once more in charge of things. He had made a quick recovery from his hurts, although he still experienced a difficulty in swallowing.
Preston too was making favourable progress. His latest wound was a clean cut. Up to the present there had been no complications, and his amateur nurses had good reason to think that none would be forthcoming.
With Mahmed things were different. Twenty-four hours elapsed before he regained consciousness. He was suffering from at least half a dozen deep knife wounds and several others of a lesser degree of danger. In addition to a serious loss of blood, he was in a high fever.
Peter was greatly concerned over the dangerous state of his trusty servant. He had thought of putting into the nearest port in Madagascar and landing Mahmed for medical treatment, but the boy besought Mostyn Sahib so fervently that he should not be left that Peter decided to carry on.
There was no longer any doubt about the dhow's position. On board, Mostyn had discovered, amongst other articles of navigation, a British-made sextant, and, as soon as the Acting Chief recovered sufficiently Preston had fixed the latitude. The absence of a chronometer mattered little, since the Madagascar coast was visible to starboard.
By the aid of Arab charts it was found that the dhow was now within six hundred miles of Pangawani, the nearest port in the Kilba Protectorate, and, indeed, the nearest territory under British rule. Provided the wind held, the dhow ought to reel off those six hundred miles in from five to six days.
Everything considered, Peter congratulated himself. In a stout, weatherly craft, although on very unconventional lines according to British standards, there was little cause for anxiety on the score of danger. There were ample provisions of sorts, and sufficient fresh water to enable the dhow to carry on without being under the necessity of putting into any port to revictual.
The Arab prisoners gave little trouble. Given food and water and medical stores of their own providing, they accepted the changed conditions with typical Moslem fatalism. Twice a day they were allowed on deck singly, ostentatiously covered by Mostyn with his automatic; and, without the slightest show of opposition, they returned to their place of captivity in the hold directly they were so ordered.
Amongst other articles discovered in the Arab captain's cabin was a leather bag, containing gold and silver coins of an approximate value of £120. This Peter placed in a large trunk, which, in default of lock and key, was secured by driving in several long nails. He told no one of his find, but resolved to hand over the money to the port authorities as soon as the dhow arrived at Pangawani.
After distinguishing herself by knocking out her Arab assailant and making herself useful until Peter was able to resume control, Mrs. Shallop had drifted back into her old style. For hours at a stretch she remained in the cabin assigned to her. When she did appear she indulged in outbursts of complaints against everything in general.
Peter now suffered her in silence. He could afford to do so, knowing that within the next few days he would be relieved both of her company and his responsibility.
On the fifth day following the acquisition of the dhow, the Comoro Islands were sighted on the starboard bow. There were now plenty of craft to be seen, from tramp steamers to dhows. Mostyn let them pass without attempting to communicate. A sort of spirit of independence possessed him. Having gone thus far without outside assistance he was determined to see the business through. Had urgent necessity arisen he would have stopped a large vessel and requested medical attention, but Mahmed was making good progress, and was so emphatic in his desire to remain with his master, that any thwarting of his wishes in that direction would have more than counterbalanced any good that a doctor might have done.
It was not until the morning of the eighth day that land was sighted on the port bow. Once again, after days of adventure, Mostyn was gazing upon the African mainland.
"You'll have to be jolly careful how you approach Pangawani Harbour, old son," cautioned Preston for the twentieth time. "For goodness sake don't put the old hooker on the bar and kipper the show."
"I don't intend to," replied the cautious Peter. "The Arab chart isn't much good. It's on too small a scale. I'll bring up and signal for a pilot, unless there's another vessel making the port. If so, I'll follow her in."
As ill luck would have it the wind dropped about midday, and Mostyn had the mortification of seeing the entrance to Pangawani Harbour at less than five miles away, without being able to gain a hundred yards through the water. At times the dhow was appreciably drifting away from the desired haven. Until close on sunset she was becalmed. Then a stiff off-shore breeze sprang up.
There was no help for it. Throughout the night the dhow was under way close hauled, passing and repassing the entrance without being able to cross the bar. Even after the wind had freed her, Peter would not have risked the intricate entrance in the darkness. So, with the roar of the surf borne to his ears, Peter kept watch during the darkness, until dawn revealed the fact that the dhow was immediately abreast of and less than a mile from the actual fairway.
Yet the harbour was denied him. The sea breeze gave place to another calm, and it was not until the sun was high in the heavens that the customary onshore wind began to make itself felt.
There were other craft making the harbour. Several dhows were in sight, their crews, tired of waiting for the breeze, laboriously sweeping the ponderous craft. Farther away was a gunboat, her white-painted sides looking strangely unfamiliar to people accustomed to the "battleship grey" of warships in home waters.
"She's down from Zanzibar," declared Preston. "She's got a soft job nowadays, but those fellows had a sticky time when I was on the coast. No, I don't think she's coming in here, otherwise we might have had a tow in."
The dhow was now gathering way under the fair breeze. A cable's length astern was another dhow, the crew of which had just relinquished their sweeps and were preparing to hoist sail. Mostyn noticed that the white-robed skipper was intently watching him, and that the curiosity was shared by the rest of the Arab crew.
"P'raps he recognizes the old hooker," he remarked to Olive, who was standing with him on the poop. "He'll be puzzling his brains to know what we're doing on board."
Even as he spoke a distinct splash astern attracted his attention. Stepping aft he was just in time to see a brown figure diving into the water in the wake of another who was swimming a good ten feet beneath the surface.
Then there was another splash and the performance was repeated.
"By Jove!" exclaimed Mostyn. "We've been done. Our prisoners are escaping."
"Have escaped," corrected Olive as five heads, appeared above the surface.
One of the Arabs was swimming strongly, at the same time shouting to his compatriots on the nearest dhow. Two others were making slower progress for the reason that each was encumbered by supporting a disabled man.
Without let or hindrance the escaped prisoners gained the dhow astern and were hauled upon deck. Then, putting her helm down, the succouring craft went about and headed for the open sea.
"They've done us in the eye," declared Peter.
"I'm rather glad," said Olive.
"So am I in a way," agreed Mostyn. "Saved us a lot of trouble, handing 'em over, attending their trial, and all that sort of thing. But it's a bit of a mystery how they managed to break out of the ship."
Leaving the lascar at the helm, Peter went below and examined the hatch of the after-hold. It was intact and secured. Raising it he peered below. The mystery was a mystery no longer. Unknown to him there were two square ports right aft and just above the waterline, which, when in harbour, were used to facilitate stowage of cargo. Seizing their opportunity, the prisoners had kept observation until they saw a friendly dhow within easy distance, and had made their escape through one of the ports.
"And I'm also very glad," continued Peter, "that there's a gunboat within sight, otherwise we might have had to try conclusions with a dozen armed Arabs."
He turned to the second lascar.
"Hoist the pilot flag," he ordered.
The pilot flag—S International—was quickly forthcoming. In the absence of a set of signal flags on board, Olive, under Peter's direction, had made the required flag out of some white linen and a square of blue cloth from the Arab skipper's wardrobe.
The signal was answered with far greater dispatch than at Bulonga, and within half an hour the Pangawani pilot boat was alongside.
"Hello!" was the greeting of the dapper clean-shaven official, as he came over the side and regarded with undisguised astonishment the bedraggled and somewhat battered crew of the dhow. "Hello! You look as if you've been in the wars. Where are you from?"
Before Mostyn could reply Preston broke in:
"Davis, old son!" he exclaimed. "Cut the cackle and get us in. I'm dying for a whisky and soda."
"Great Scott!" ejaculated the pilot in astonishment. "Preston, by the powers! We heard that you were lost in theWest Barbican."
"All you hear isn't gospel, my bright youth," rejoined the Acting Chief sententiously, as he took a cigarette from the case offered by the port official. "Hardly expected to see you here, if it comes to that."
"They transferred me from Zanzibar in November last," exclaimed Davis. "It's a move up. Here I'm practically my own boss."
He walked towards the tiller, turned on his heel, and glanced shorewards.
"You can tell your fellows to stow sail," he continued. "We'll tow you in."
"By the by," inquired Peter. "What is the date? We seem to have lost count."
"The eleventh of January," was the reply.