Kitabı oku: «The Ruined Cities of Zululand», sayfa 14

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.”