Black Ivory. Robert Michael Ballantyne
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I fear it may cost you your life. But it is too late to talk of that; we must fix on some plan, and act at once.”
“The werry thing, sir,” said Disco quietly, “that wos runnin’ in my own mind, ’cos it’s werry clear that we hain’t got too many minits to spare in confabilation.”
“Well, what do you suggest?”
“Arter you, sir,” said Disco, pulling his forelock; “you are capting now, an’ ought to give orders.”
“Then I think the best thing we can do,” rejoined Harold, “is to make straight for the shore, search for an opening in the reef, run through, and beach the vessel on the sand. What say you?”
“As there’s nothin’ else left for us to do,” replied Disco, “that’s ’zactly wot I think too, an’ the sooner we does it the better.”
“Down with the helm, then,” cried Harold, springing forward, “and I’ll ease off the sheets.”
In a few minutes the ‘Aurora’ was surging before a stiff breeze towards the line of foam which indicated the outlying reef, and inside of which all was comparatively calm.
“If we only manage to get inside,” said Harold, “we shall do well.”
Disco made no reply. His whole attention was given to steering the brig, and running his eyes anxiously along the breakers, the sound of which increased to a thunderous roar as they drew near.
“There seems something like a channel yonder,” said Harold, pointing anxiously to a particular spot in the reef.
“I see it, sir,” was the curt reply.
A few minutes more of suspense, and the brig drove into the supposed channel, and struck with such violence that the foremast snapped off near the deck, and went over the side.
“God help us, we’re lost!” exclaimed Harold, as a towering wave lifted the vessel up and hurled her like a plaything on the rocks.
“Stand by to jump, sir,” cried Disco. Another breaker came roaring in at the moment, overwhelmed the brig, rolled her over on her beam-ends, and swept the two men out of her. They struggled gallantly to free themselves from the wreck, and, succeeding with difficulty, swam across the sheltered water to the shore, on which they finally landed.
Harold’s first exclamation was one of thankfulness for their deliverance, to which Disco replied with a hearty “Amen!” and then turning round and surveying the coast, while he slowly thrust his hands into his wet trouser-pockets, wondered whereabouts in the world they had got to.
“To the east coast of Africa, to be sure,” observed the young supercargo, with a slight smile, as he wrung the water out of the foot of his trousers, “the place we were bound for, you know.”
“Werry good; so here we are—come to an anchor! Well, I only wish,” he added, sitting down on a piece of driftwood, and rummaging in the pockets before referred to, as if in search of something—“I only wish I’d kep’ on my weskit, ’cause all my ’baccy’s there, and it would be a rael comfort to have a quid in the circumstances.”
It was fortunate for the wrecked voyagers that the set of the current had carried portions of their vessel to the shore, at a considerable distance from the spot where they had landed, because a band of natives, armed with spears and bows and arrows, had watched the wreck from the neighbouring heights, and had hastened to that part of the coast on which they knew from experience the cargo would be likely to drift. The heads of the swimmers being but small specks in the distance, had escaped observation. Thus they had landed unseen. The spot was near the entrance to a small river or creek, which was partially concealed by the formation of the land and by mangrove trees.
Harold was the first to observe that they had not been cast on an uninhabited shore. While gazing round him, and casting about in his mind what was best to be done, he heard shouts, and hastening to a rocky point that hid part of the coast from his view looked cautiously over it and saw the natives. He beckoned to Disco, who joined him.
“They haven’t a friendly look about ’em,” observed the seaman, “and they’re summat scant in the matter of clothin’.”
“Appearances are often deceptive,” returned his companion, “but I so far agree with you that I think our wisest course will be to retire into the woods, and there consult as to our future proceedings, for it is quite certain that as we cannot live on sand and salt water, neither can we safely sleep in wet clothes or on the bare ground in a climate like this.”
Hastening towards the entrance to the creek, the unfortunate pair entered the bushes, through which they pushed with some difficulty, until they gained a spot sufficiently secluded for their purpose, when they observed that they had passed through a belt of underwood, beyond which there appeared to be an open space. A few steps further and they came out on a sort of natural basin formed by the creek, in which floated a large boat of a peculiar construction, with very piratical-looking lateen sails. Their astonishment at this unexpected sight was increased by the fact that on the opposite bank of the creek there stood several men armed with muskets, which latter were immediately pointed at their breasts.
The first impulse of the shipwrecked friends was to spring back into the bushes—the second to advance and hold up their empty hands to show that they were unarmed.
“Hold on,” exclaimed Disco, in a free and easy confidential tone; “we’re friends, we are; shipwrecked mariners we is, so ground arms, my lads, an’ make your minds easy.”
One of the men made some remark to another, who, from his Oriental dress, was easily recognised by Harold as one of the Arab traders of the coast. His men appeared to be half-castes.
The Arab nodded gravely, and said something which induced his men to lower their muskets. Then with a wave of his hand he invited the strangers to come over the creek to him.
This was rendered possible by the breadth of the boat already mentioned being so great that, while one side touched the right bank of the creek, the other was within four or five feet of the left.
Without hesitation Harold Seadrift bounded lightly from the bank to the half-deck of the boat, and, stepping ashore, walked up to the Arab, closely followed by his companion.
“Do you speak English?” asked Harold.
The Arab shook his head and said, “Arabic, Portuguese.”
Harold therefore shook his head;—then, with a hopeful look, said “French?” interrogatively.
The Arab repeated the shake of his head, but after a moments’ thought said, “I know littil Engleesh; speak, where comes you?”
“We have been wrecked,” began Harold (the Arab glanced gravely at his dripping clothes, as if to say, I had guessed as much), “and this man and I are the only survivors of the crew of our ship—at least the only two who swam on shore, the others went off in a boat.”
“Come you from man-of-war?” asked the Arab, with a keen glance at the candid countenance of the youth.
“No, our vessel was a trader bound for Zanzibar. She now lies in fragments on the shore, and we have escaped with nothing but the clothes on our backs. Can you tell us whether there is a town or a village in the neighbourhood? for, as you see, we stand sadly in need of clothing, food, and shelter. We have no money, but we have good muscles and stout hearts, and could work our way well enough, I doubt not.”
Young Seadrift said this modestly, but the remark was unnecessary, for it would have been quite obvious to a man of much less intelligence than the Arab that a youth who, although just entering on the age of manhood, was six feet high, deep-chested, broad-shouldered, and as lithe as a kitten, could not find any difficulty in working his way, while his companion, though a little older, was evidently quite as capable.
“There be no town, no village, for fifty miles from where you stand,” replied the Arab.
“Indeed!” exclaimed Harold in surprise, for he had always supposed the East African coast to be rather populous.
“That’s a blue look-out