Kitabı oku: «The Ruined Cities of Zululand»

Preface

No one ever reads prefaces now-a-days; why, therefore, should I write one? may be fairly asked. Simply, I reply, to tell the reader that the tale imperfectly related in these volumes is not a mere work of fiction. It is based on a document sent to me by my brother, to whom I have dedicated this work, and who has for many years been a resident of the frontiers of Zulu Land.

The paper alluded to was transmitted by me, according to my brother’s desire, to His Imperial Majesty the Emperor of the French, together with a map of Zulu Land, which had been exhibited in the Natal section of the great Paris Exhibition of 1867. Both were graciously accepted and acknowledged by His Imperial Majesty.

The country traversed by the daring men, whose adventures are related in the following pages, is still to be explored. The ruins of the Fort of Sofala, even now, lie buried in the sand, on the beach of the far away Indian Ocean. The Arabs still search there for the smelted lumps of gold, buried or lost by those of whose existence no other trace remains.

The mysterious slabs still exist, encrusted with the dirt and grime of ages, on the mountain land of Gorongoza, and should my tale induce any adventurous spirit to make an attempt to clear away the veil of mystery which yet shrouds the remains of the Ruined Cities of Zulu Land, I can only refer him to Captain Walmsley, from whom the primary information contained herein was first gleaned, before whom the Missionary’s depositions were made, and who, for more than fifteen years of his life, has well and honourably filled the difficult and dangerous position of Government Agent, Magistrate, and Resident on the wild frontier of savage Zulu Land.

Bellary Fort

There are few hotter places, and few more unhealthy ones, among our Indian up-country stations than Bellary, in the Madras Presidency, garrisoned in the year 1856 by Her Majesty’s 150th Regiment of Infantry. Let the reader imagine the lines of a fort drawn round a bare sugar-loaf hill, on which an Indian sun pours its rays for months. Thoroughly heated by this process of roasting, the arid rock gives out all night the caloric absorbed during the day, and a three years’ residence in the Fort of Bellary, such as had been passed by the officers and men of the 150th Regiment, was about equivalent to the same period in a baker’s oven. Years passed, and the English Government had at last perceived that it was madness to keep troops within the lines of the old fort when a rich and well-timbered plain lay around it. Barracks had been built outside; and about three-quarters of a mile distant from the main gate of Bellary, white bungalows, with their green verandahs and their well-kept compounds, lay scattered here and there among the trees, while far away, under the moon’s rays, on the night when our tale opens, a beautiful one in December, stretched the rich plain, with its piles of rock rising like huge black molehills here and there, giving welcome shelter to the wild-cats, jackals, and hyenas, whose cries might be heard from time to time ringing over the plain. The mess-house of the regiment consisted of the usual large commodious building, with its many outhouses or godowns, the whole surrounded by a low wall, and that again protected by a strong hedge of the prickly pear. A broad verandah ran round the main building, and a flight of steps led up to the house, where some half-dozen of the officers of the corps, dressed in white, with nothing to distinguish them except the forage-cap bearing the number of the regiment, were seated, chatting and smoking. The day had been very hot, but a pleasant breeze was blowing over the plain; the click of the billiard-balls was heard from an adjoining room, whose windows, thrown wide open, cast a stream of light into the compound, and the hum of voices from the messroom told of the dinner only just finished, and of the party of seasoned old soldiers who were even then loth to quit the pleasures of the table and the bottle of Madeira which had crossed the line four times, and for which particular wine the 150th had long been justly famous.

“I am half sorry that my leave has arrived, just as we are expecting the route,” said an officer, puffing out a long spiral wreath of smoke as he spoke, and reaching out his hand towards the tumbler of weak brandy pawnee standing on a small table by his side.

“Hear him, the impostor!” laughed a second. “Two years of leave, after nearly nine of foreign service, and he talks of regret.”

The first speaker was rather a slight figure, but withal strongly built; thin and wiry, he showed no superfluous flesh. The rather prominent forehead was tanned to a deep brown, save where the line of the forage-cap showed the white skin of the European; the cheeks were sunken, and bore the sallow tinge of sickness, while the aquiline nose, the well-cut mouth, and the rather heavy under jaw, spoke of determination and vigour of character. Nearly six feet in height, he lay languidly back in his chair, the dark masses of hair curling under the forage-cap, and the large black eyes giving a still more marked appearance of illness to his features.

“If I could shake off this feeling of illness, Harris,” he replied, “get rid of this terrible Bellary fever, you may depend upon it. I would throw up my leave. One’s regiment becomes one’s family after nearly twelve years’ service, nine of which have been passed in India.”

“And you are only captain,” replied the other. “A pretty look-out for me, an ensign yet. You had better stop and give me a lift, by making a death vacancy. Do, Hughes, there’s a good fellow.”

Captain Hughes laughed.

“We shall have the route to-morrow; and if the march to Secunderabad be anything like what ours was from Madras, you won’t want for death vacancies.”

“Was it such a terrible one?” asked the other, in a serious tone.

“Terrible,” replied Major Ashley, who had just left the table, and was lighting his third cigar since dinner, “why, a march up-country in India is always terrible work, as you’ll find out before you are many weeks older. There was some dispute about our destination when we were ordered up here three years since,” continued the Major, “and so we were detained until the hot weather set in, and cholera caught us up. The road we took may even yet be traced by the mounds of stones which cover our dead.”

“It was a fearful time,” said Captain Hughes. “When we arrived in sight of the walls of yonder fort, the men were dropping fast, the sentries over the hospital had often to be changed from outside to inside the tent, the surgeon and assistant-surgeon had to be carried to see their sick, so worn were they with fatigue, while round our lines all night long the wailing of the camp followers was to be heard, for they perished by hundreds, the dead being found, when the grey light of morning broke, lying stiff and stark among the tent ropes.”

“But you reached the fort at last?” asked the Ensign.

“Yes, we did reach it at last, didn’t we, Hughes?” answered Major Ashley. “Do you remember the day an orderly rode into our lines, bearing an order from General Black Jack, as we used to call him, forbidding us to enter the fort; and how, for the sake of doing something, we marched short marches daily round yonder walls, until at last our colonel saw that the men were growing mutinous, and told Black Jack that he would storm the fort if not allowed to enter?”

“I remember it well; and he gave way. The gates were thrown open, and the scourge left us. But it’s late; and if we are to have any chance of the tiger, you had better get your rifles, and we will have the sheep picketed. See, they are closing the messroom doors, and putting out the lights.”

“So they are,” returned a third, yawning; “I shall wish you luck, and turn in.”

“I say, Harris, mind you don’t make a vacancy in the Light Company yourself,” said a captain of Grenadiers, as a group of the late billiard-players went laughing and talking down the steps into the moonlight. “I don’t believe you ever saw a tiger, or know anything about a rifle.”

“Never fear for me, Hunt; an ensign’s not worth a tiger’s trouble. If you would consent, now, to be picketed instead of the sheep, Captain—”

“Go to the devil! Good-night, Hughes.” And “Good-night—a pleasant journey,” rang out cheerily from one after another as they crossed the mess-compound, and took their way to their respective quarters.

“You are an old hand, Hughes,” said the Ensign, after a short pause. “Do you remember the Rajah who was a prisoner on the top of Bellary rock?”

“Don’t I!” replied the Captain. “I say, Curtis,” he continued, addressing a lieutenant of his own company, “you relieved the man who so nearly let the old Rajah loose.”

“Ay, poor old fellow; he’s dead now, and can’t ask his old, well-known question.”

“What was it, Curtis? What did he ask, and who was he?”

“Well, wait till I have lit this cigar, and I’ll tell you,” answered Curtis. “We have an hour yet before the moon gets low, and those black palkywallers are making such a row.”

The cigar was lighted, the brandy-and-water carefully mixed and placed on an adjoining table within reach, and comfortably settling himself on his seat, Lieutenant Curtis began his history.

“On the top of yonder sugar-loaf hill, in the centre of Bellary Fort, a prisoner was confined, and the daily duty of the officer of the guard was to visit him. He was an old, worn-out man, whose hair had grown grey a captive, and I can tell you, Harris, it was no joke to have to plod up the steps cut in the face of the rock every morning, to ask the old man the stereotyped question, ‘Did he want anything?’

“He had been a sovereign of some petty State, and our people wanted the land, so they took it, and to keep its former owner quiet, confined him to the top of yon granite rock; so daily the subaltern on guard mounted the steps, and asked the usual question, every time receiving the same reply,—

“‘Yes, I want my liberty and the land you stole from me, nothing else!’”

“And did he ever get it?” asked Harris.

“He very nearly did,” replied Captain Hughes. “But go on with your tale, Curtis.”

The officer addressed took a steady pull at the brandy pawnee by his side, puffed out a heavy cloud of smoke, and continued—

“One day the old man received by stealth a considerable sum of money, and with this and the promise of more he succeeded in bribing an officer of a native regiment, then doing duty with us in the fort. The officer went up with his palky several times pretexting illness, and no notice was taken of it; at last, one day the bearers, who had been also well paid, felt by the weight that the prisoner was inside. They took up the palky, which had been standing near the gate, and lazily followed by the sick officer, who inspected the sergeant’s guard as he passed, took their way down.

“It was well contrived, but old Sergeant Flack of ours noticed the weight of the empty palky, and as soon as he had turned in his guard, went to his prisoner’s quarters to find the bird flown.

“The subaltern and the palanquin with its bearers parted company at the foot of the hill, he taking his way to the main guard, a richer, but dishonoured man; the poor prisoner, his heart beating wildly at the now sure prospect of liberty, was borne along towards the gates of the fort. An armed party of his former subjects waited him; so once outside and mounted he would be safe, and if it had not been for Flack he would have been.

“Just as he neared the gate, the old Sergeant came up breathless, and the loud cry of ‘Guard, turn out!’ was heard, while the next moment the palanquin was surrounded by the bayonets of our fellows, and the poor grey-headed Rajah found himself half-an-hour later once more seated in the quarters assigned him on the top of the rock.”

“Poor fellow! and what became of him?” asked Harris.

“He never again made an attempt to escape, but, native-like, bowed submissively to his fate, and every morning gave the reply I have already repeated to the officer of the guard. It was his only revenge, and until he died this little solace seemed agreeable to him.”

“And the officer who connived at the escape?” asked Curtis.

“It could never be proved against him,” answered the other. “The old Rajah always sternly denied having had any collusion with him. The bearers had bolted in the confusion; and though he was sent down to Madras and tried by court-martial, he was not convicted, for there was no proof.”

“Ay, but he resigned his commission at once, left for England, and from a poor man, rose into one of fair moderate means,” remarked Captain Hughes. “But see, the moon is low now, your fellow has picketed the sheep, and if we are to do any good, silence must be the order of the night.”

A tiger had lately committed some ravages within the lines of the 150th, and the night before had actually entered the mess-compound of the corps. It was a man-eater, too, and when once these ferocious animals take to preying on the human species, they acquire a love for the food, which never leaves them. Lieutenant Curtis and the Ensign had volunteered to kill it, while Captain Hughes, who was to start for Madras on two years’ leave, had gladly joined the party.

Silence now fell on the watchers, the moonlight grew more and more feeble, the red ends of the cigars gleamed under the shadow of the verandah, in one corner of which stood the Captain’s palanquin, its bearers thrown down on the chenam floor beside it, sleeping soundly. The stars were shining brightly, and the cries of the hyenas on the plain beyond were answered from time to time by the bleat of the sheep, picketed in the centre of the yard. Hour passed after hour, and the moon had quite disappeared. The youngest of the party, unused to the long watch, had fallen fast asleep, and his head being thrown back in an uneasy position, was snoring loudly.

“Confound that fellow, he is enough to frighten a Bengal tiger; just prod him up, Hughes, will you!” said Curtis, in an undertone.

The Ensign’s rifle leaned against one of the pillars of the verandah. Those of the other two lay across their knees, and Hughes, giving two or three pokes with the muzzle of his, between the sleeping lad’s ribs, tried to wake him. Worn out with the heat and watching, the boy muttered some unintelligible words, and, turning, was again fast asleep in a moment.

“And you don’t mean to go to England?” continued Curtis, speaking in a guarded tone.

“No, I don’t,” returned Hughes, in the same low voice. “You and I, Curtis, are the crack shots of the regiment, and my rifle at least shall be heard on the plains and by the rivers of South Africa.”

“How I wish I could start with you, old fellow,” said Curtis, with a sigh.

“How I wish you could; but it’s no use wishing, Curtis. You have had so much leave of late that you can’t ask, and if you did, your application would not be forwarded.”

“No, I suppose not. Colonel Desmond’s a good fellow; but I should not like to ask him. Have you any one you know in South Africa?”

“Yes, I’ve a relation who has been for many years Government Agent on the Zulu frontier, and he promises me a fit out, and a letter to Panda, the King of the Zulus.”

“Won’t you have splendid elephant hunting, and, may be, join again with a Kaffir wife.”

Hughes laughed. “How that sheep bleats; and hush, Curtis—there’s a skurry among the jackals. Do you hear? Hush!”

Hardly had he spoken when the sharp click of the rifle-locks was heard, as their owners brought them to full cock, and almost at the same moment, with a loud growl, a dark, massive form topped the low wall, and with one blow of his powerful fore-arm the man-eater struck down its prey. The tiger turned to fly, carrying with it the dead sheep, but the rope by which it was tied to the stake stopped it. With a low growl of anger the brute glanced round, as though not understanding the reason of the check. The starlight streamed over his painted hide, and the simultaneous reports of the two rifles rang out on the air. Hard hit, the tiger turned, dashed at the wall, clearing it once more, but as he did so received the contents of the two remaining barrels of the rifles, disappearing with a howl of pain and rage.

Harris, worn out by heat he was little accustomed to, had dropped into that dead sleep which invariably overpowers Europeans not broken to an Indian climate. Awoke suddenly by the growl of the tiger, closely followed by the reports of the rifles, it took him some seconds to realise the situation. Even then his faculties seemed confused, for, seizing his rifle, he dashed, without speaking a word, through the gate, in the low compound wall, followed by the loud laughter of his comrades.

“Hallo! stop, you sleepy hunter of tigers!” shouted Curtis, as soon as he could speak for laughter. A fierce growl from the other side of the compound was heard, a long snarl of mingled anger and pain dying away into a deep moan, the report of a rifle ringing loudly on the night air, and all was still.

The two officers looked at each other for a second, then, their emptied pieces in their hands, they also dashed through the gateway, followed at a cautious distance however by the now thoroughly awakened bearers, who had been sleeping beside the palanquin.

The starlight showed the tiger lying dead, and beside it in a half sitting posture, Ensign Harris, with his rifle across his knees.

The wounded brute, after clearing the low wall, had fallen, then dragged itself heavily forward, just passing the gateway, when Harris, at top speed, dashed out, to pitch head foremost over the writhing body in its death struggle. The rifle fell from his hand, and the tiger, though dying, eager for revenge, struck out at the youth’s body, as he rolled over and over, carried on by the speed at which he had been running.

“By Jove you’ve had a narrow escape, my boy. It’s not every fellow clears a tiger that way,” exclaimed Hughes, as the two stood leaning on their rifles by the carcase of the dead animal.

“I haven’t got clear,” replied the Ensign, rising to one knee, and wincing with pain as he did so; “but you will find my ball in the tiger’s head, and so I have fairly earned the skin.”

“Here, you fellows, fetch the palky,” cried Curtis. “It is a question of your own skin, not the tiger’s. Wounds are never so easily cured under the sun of India as at home.”

“Oh, it’s only a scratch, Curtis,” said the brave lad, as the palanquin came up, and his comrades placed him in it.

“I tell you there’s no such thing as only a scratch here. If you will go with him to his quarters, Hughes, I’ll send Chapman.”

The Ensign’s bungalow was close by; Chapman, the assistant-surgeon of the regiment, was soon awoke, the wound found to be a severe but not dangerous one, the tiger, having struck forward like a huge cat, with its powerful fore-arm just catching the youngster’s leg, scoring deeply into the flesh, and tearing off the light shoe. The wounds were bandaged, and Ensign Harris’s name placed on the sick list.

“Good-night, Hughes, and a pleasant journey to you,” said Curtis, as the two shook hands at the entrance of the compound.

The air was fresh and cool, the “Southern Cross” was just dipping towards the distant horizon, the long mournful howl of a far-away hyena came across the plain, and on the white dusty road stood the dark-looking palanquin, with its group of dusky bearers, as, wringing his brother officer’s hand, Captain Hughes stepped into it, and with a sing-song chaunt the palkywallers shouldered their burden, and moved away on the first stage, which was to lead to the broad plains and well-stocked prairies of that Shikaree’s heaven, the hunting-fields of South Africa.

The “Halcyon” Brig

“Sail ho!” shouted the look-out in the foretop of the merchant brig, the “Halcyon,” one fine afternoon, some three months after, the events related in the preceding chapter.

The sun was just setting in the western horizon, tinging the trembling waves with a golden hue. The brig was making good weather of it, and she looked a likely craft to do so. Her long, low, black hull supported a pyramid of white canvas, every sail drawing to a nicety, as, with a fresh breeze right over the quarter, she held her course to the northward and westward, bound for the coast of Africa. Three men only were pacing her quarter-deck. The one, a middle-sized, stout built man, his face tanned to the colour of mahogany, was evidently the master of the brig. The second, much younger, was his first mate; while leaning over the bulwarks, lazily looking into the sea, a solitary passenger, who had been taken on board when the brig lay in Madras roads, completed the trio. Forward, on the forecastle, was a group of sailors, thrown here and there under the weather bulwarks, some asleep, some telling tales of former adventures in the land now a hundred miles away on the brig’s larboard bow, and which they hoped to sight in the morning.

“Sail ho!” shouted the look-out, and Captain Weber stopped suddenly in his walk, turning to windward, his long grey hair streaming out on the breeze as he did so. His was the seaman’s face of the old type. The forehead low and massive; the thick eyebrows overshadowing small piercing eyes; the large good-humoured mouth ever ready to smile, and showing as he did so a range of white teeth; bushy grey whiskers; and a skin tanned to a good standing mahogany colour. His short sturdy frame was clothed in a slop suit of pilot cloth, and a plain cap with a heavy peak completed the picture.

Captain Weber had entered the merchant service as a boy; had been pressed on board a man-of-war; had seen some service, and was now part owner of the brig he commanded. Mr Blount, his first officer, was a man of another school. Taller, and more finely formed, the straight Grecian nose, dark hair, and carefully trimmed whiskers, were adorned by a naval cap having a thin strip of gold lace round it, and the short monkey jacket showed also on the cuffs of the sleeves the same bit of coquetry in the shape of gold lace, it and the waistcoat boasting brass buttons.

“Where away, Smith?—point to her,” replied the latter, as he too stopped in his walk, and looked aloft.

This was a phrase lately introduced into the Royal Navy, and copied by the old captain. In a gale, when the look-out’s voice could hardly be heard above the roar of the wind, the pointing in the given direction supplanted the voice, and was a useful innovation. The man’s hand, on this occasion, was held straight out, pointing to leeward, and there, sure enough, the loftier sails of a full-rigged ship could be seen, standing in the same direction as themselves. The two seamen, shading their eyes from the last gleam of the sun, which was sinking like a ball of red fire into the tumbling waves, gazed at the distant sail, making her out to be a ship lying to, perhaps a whaler.

“It’s a queer thing, that a whaler should be lying to so near land, Blount,” said Captain Weber, after he had looked long and attentively in the direction of the ship. “Hand me the glass.”

At this moment the passenger, waking up from his fit of abstraction, joined the two seamen.

“A ship lying to—and what is there strange in that?” was the question he asked.

“Why, Captain Hughes,” replied the mate (Captain Weber being too busy with the glass to reply), “a merchantman generally makes the best of her way from port to port. With her, time is money, while one of Her Majesty’s cruisers (God bless her!) would be jogging along under easy sail, not caring either for time or money; but certainly not hove to. No; yonder ship must be a whaler; but it’s not often those fellows find their fish in such high latitudes.”

“There,” said Captain Hughes, for it was indeed he who was the “Halcyon’s” solitary passenger. “There—she fills.”

“You have a quick eye for a soldier,” exclaimed Captain Weber. “Yonder ship has indeed filled as you call it; but allow me to tell you, as a general rule, that square-rigged craft brace-up, while fore-and-aft vessels fill, as they have no yards to brace-up.”

“That’s logical, at all events,” answered the soldier.

“Ay, and it’s seamanlike,” replied Captain Weber. “Fore-and-aft vessels, when hauling to the wind, get a pull at the sheets, so as to get their sails to set flatter; but you are not absolutely wrong, for, after lying to, both square-rigged and fore-and-aft vessels may be said to fill and make sail. Correctly speaking, yonder whaler has braced up her yards.”

“We shall near her rapidly then?” inquired the soldier.

“We are running on two converging lines, which at a given point must meet, and if yonder craft wishes to speak us, she will have it in her power to do so,” replied the precise old man. “Here’s the steward to announce dinner. The wind seems falling, Mr Blount. Shake out the reefs in our topsails, and join us. Come, Captain Hughes, if your appetite is as sharp as your eyes, you won’t be sorry to go below.”

The momentary bustle consequent on the making sail followed; the deck was then handed over to the second mate, Mr Lowe (for Captain Weber, contrary to the usual rules of the merchant service, had a first and second mate), and all relapsed into the usual silence; the soughing of the wind through the spars and rigging, and the splash of the waves as they struck against the brig’s bows, alone breaking the silence. The stars peeped out, the wind falling with the setting sun, while, as the brig was running free, the motion was slight. Now and then the ship’s bell rang out on the still night air, marking the passing hours, and the monotonous tread of the officer in charge as he paced the deck, with occasionally a loud laugh from the men forward, was heard.

Mr Lowe’s watch was just ending, and the clear silver tones of the bell had rang out eight times, when the first mate stopped in his walk, looking at the binnacle light, “Have you remarked that red star yonder, Mr Lowe?” asked the old salt at the helm.

“No, Adams; what do you make of it?” replied the officer, turning towards the point indicated.

“Leastways, I don’t think it’s a star. Shouldn’t that whaling chap be down yonder away, sir?”

The second mate took the night-glass, and was in the act of adjusting it, when a bright vivid flame shot up from the sea, and the black hull and spars of a large ship were distinctly seen vomiting forth a volcano of flame; then a low smothered thud came booming over the ocean, and for an instant all was dark and silent. It was but for a few seconds, however, for then a small quivering point of flame danced on the waves; it spread, increasing rapidly in volume; the red light ran up the ropes and rigging of the ship, which was only a few miles to leeward of the “Halcyon.” Her sails, one by one, caught fire, while explosion after explosion followed, and by the lurid glare the crew of the doomed craft might be seen moving about in helpless confusion.

“Starboard—starboard, you may, Adams.” It was Captain Weber who spoke. “Lay her head straight for the wreck. Take a pull at the weather-sheets and haulyards, my lads. Cheerily, so—steady, Adams—steady. Get the royals on her, Mr Lowe. Watch and idlers, make sail.”

It was a splendid but a terrible sight, as the “Halcyon,” under her additional sail, plunged through the long seas, straight for the burning ship. Soon the cries of the men on board her could be heard, and the mainmast fell. The flames rose some two hundred feet into the air, the sea being lighted up all round, while slowly surging through the ocean came the dark hull of the “Halcyon,” all possible sail set, on her mission of mercy.

Nearer and nearer came the brig.

“See,” said Captain Weber, pointing with his hand, “the boats have been blown away, and the poor fellows have no means of leaving the wreck.”

“Ay, and she must have powder on board, for the hatchways are blown off, and the solid timbers of her decks forced up.”

At this moment a fresh and fiercer burst of flame shot up into the air, and the crew of the burning vessel could be seen jumping into the waves. It was but a choice of deaths, the fierce volcano under foot, or the surging waves around. Captain Weber stamped with impatience; his clipper brig had never seemed to him to move so slowly, and yet every sail drew, and the green water swirled under her counter as she cut her way through the seas.

The ship was a complete wreck, her cargo was on fire, there were not any boats; and a few men, clinging to some spare spars, which had been thrown overboard evidently with the intention of making a raft, were now all that were left to be saved.

Suddenly she gave one heavy lurch, and went down head foremost, leaving what remained of her crew floating on the waste of waters. “See the boats all clear, Mr Lowe; burn a blue light on the forecastle, and have every man at his post ready to hand the royals and heave the brig to.”

Hardly had the words been spoken by Captain Weber when a shriek of anguish rose from the ocean. The cargo of the doomed ship had been composed of naphtha, and now all at once it rose to the surface, spreading over the waves and burning furiously. The sailors on the spars were floating in a sea of fire, and a wail of anguish was given out by the perishing men. It was a fearful sight as the brig rapidly neared the fiery spot on the black ocean, the sharp death-cries ceasing as the fierce flame circled round the unhappy crew. Minutes seemed hours; and discipline was for the moment lost on board, her crew crowding the gangways, and shouting to the perishing men words of encouragement. The oldest sailor there had never before witnessed such a sight as that presented by this red seething sea of flame, with the writhing forms of the crew of the lost ship perishing miserably before their eyes.

“Silence, fore and aft!” shouted Captain Weber. “Heave to, Mr Blount. Stand by to lower away the cutter. Hold on with the blue light, Mr Lowe, until the boat is lowered.”