O'er Many Lands, on Many Seas. Stables Gordon

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СКАЧАТЬ It looked as though the fate of the good ship were sealed.

      Till this moment the soldier sergeant – my father – had lain apparently helpless and apathetic in a screen berth on the main deck. But the sound of warfare will stir the blood of even a dying soldier, as the blast of a bugle does that of the aged and worn-out war-horse. No sooner had the firing commenced than he started from his cot and speedily dressed himself, often tottering as he did so.

      Captain Roberts tells me that even then my father could hardly have known what he was about: that all he could have been certain of was that a fight was going on, and it was his duty to be in it.

      Grasping sword and pistol, he rushed on deck. Still staggering, and gazing wildly around him, almost the first thing he saw was the approach of Zareppa’s boats. He was all alive now, he rushed across the deck, and more by gesture than by voice made the commander aware of the terrible danger.

      None too soon. Already the heads of the foremost boarders were appearing above the bulwarks. But our men were speedily divided into two parties, and in a minute more the battle was raging fiercely on both sides of the deck.

      “Deen! Deen! Deen!” was the fierce and shrill Arab war-cry.

      “Hurrah! hurrah!” was the bold and answering shout of our marines and bluejackets.

      The tall form of Zareppa seemed everywhere. It towered high on the bulwarks. It was seen springing down on deck, and vaulting backwards, and wherever it came death followed in its wake.

      Soon no sound even of pistol was heard. It was a hand-to-hand fight on deck, for the Niobe had been boarded: hand to hand, and breast to breast; cutlass and sword ’gainst Somali dagger and Arab spear. There were the shrieks of pain, the cries of exultation, and horrible oaths as well, I blush to say, mingling with the groans of the dying in this dreadful mêlée.

      How peacefully the moon shone – how quiet and lovely and still the forest looked all around! How great the contrast ’twixt man and nature!

      But, see! the fight is finished. The enemy are borne backwards into the sea. Our fellows hack them down as they fly, for they are wild with the excitement of the strife.

      But high on the poop a young soldier is engaged in a deadly strife with the Arab chief himself. All his skill would hardly save Zareppa. For several minutes the duel seemed to rage. Then with a wild rash the Arab dashed forward on the soldier, his sword passed through his body and – my father fell dead.

      “English dogs!” shouted Zareppa, standing for a moment on the bulwarks with bleeding sword upheld. “Dogs of English, Zareppa’s day will come! Beware!”

      He would have vaulted into the sea, but up from behind the very place where he stood rose a dark naked figure. A dagger gleamed one instant in its hand, and next was plunged into the back of the chief, who gave a fearful shriek.

      “Ha! ha! aha!” yelled this strange figure, “Zareppa’s day hab come. Plenty quick. Ha!”

      The Arab chief fell face forward on the deck.

      It was the negro Sweeba, who had brought the news of the intended attack.

      From his own side of the river he had heard the firing and the wild shouts that told of the raging combat, and had speedily launched his rude canoe, intent on revenge for the murder of his poor wife and babes.

      Chapter Three

      “Hope, with her prizes and victories won,

      Shines in the blue of my morning sun,

      Conquering hope with golden ray,

      Blessing my landscape far away.”

Tupper.

      Not a single prisoner was taken.

      Those who were not fatally wounded had sprung overboard.

      The rest of the night passed in quietness, but when day broke, the sun shone on a sad and ghastly scene. There still lay about broken cutlasses, spears, torn pieces of cloth, and all the débris of fight, and blood, blood everywhere.

      On one side of the deck, with upturned faces, lay in ghastly array the dead of the enemy, on the other our own poor fellows had been put, and carefully covered with flags.

      All hands were summoned to prayers, to bury the dead and clear up decks.

      When, after service, the commander and his officers – alas! among those who lay beneath the Union Jack were one or two officers – went round to view the bodies, to their astonishment, they found that Zareppa had gone.

      He had only shammed death, then, in order to escape!

      Incidents of the very saddest character are soon forgotten in the service. It is as well it should be so. But a battle is no sooner fought than the decks are carefully washed, the damages all made good, and even rents and holes in the ship’s side, that might well redound to her honour, are not only carefully repaired but painted over. And whenever a vessel has had sails torn in a gale of wind, sailors are put to mend them on the following day.

      For modesty always goes hand-in-hand with true valour.

      In a fortnight after the fight in the river the brave Niobe was once more at sea, and looking all over as smart a craft as ever sailed.

      Just as I wrote these lines my good friend, Captain Roberts, looked over my shoulder.

      “Ay, lad,” he said, “and she was a smart craft too. They don’t make such ships now, and they couldn’t find the men to man ’em if they did. I tell you, Nie, it was a sight that used to make Frenchmen stare to see the old Niobe taking down top-gallant masts.”

      “Well, my dear old sea-dad,” I replied, “of course you are fond of the good old times. It is only natural you should be.”

      “But they were times. Why, nowadays they could no more do the things we did than they could pitch a ball o’ spun yarn ’twixt here and Jericho. I’m right, lad, I tell you, and I should know.”

      “Oh!” I replied, “for the matter of that, I was living in those brave old days as well as yourself.”

      “Yes, so you were,” cried the old captain, laughing. “You were borne on the books o’ the old Niobe as well as myself, and a queer little chap you were when first we met. Heigho! time flies: it’s more’n forty years ago, Nie.”

      “Wait half a minute,” I said, for I knew the old man was going to spin me a yarn that I was never tired of hearing – the story of my own early years. Why was it that I liked to hear him tell the tale over and over again, you may ask. For this reason – he never told it twice quite the same: always the same in the main incidents, doubtless, but with something new each time.

      “Wait half a minute.”

      “Ay, ay, lad!”

      I brought out the little table and set it down under his favourite tree on the lawn, and placed thereon his favourite pipe and his pouch.

      The old sailor smiled, and drew his great straw chair up and sat down, and I threw myself on the grass and prepared to listen.

      The captain had his two elbows on the table; he was teasing the tobacco, and when he began to speak he was evidently following out some train of thought, and addressing СКАЧАТЬ