by M. M. Kaye
Indignation brought a flush to Miss Hollis’s classic features, and her eyes sparkled in a manner that Captain Fullbright considered magnificent, though hardly alluring. He shrugged non-committally and remarked that in his opinion all power-politics were apt to be a dirty business, and though he did not hold any brief for the British, he doubted if any Frenchman could be regarded as neutral or unbiased in the matter of the East African territories. Or Zanzibar either!
“Are you suggesting that the French might wish to annex the Island?” exclaimed Hero, shocked. “But that is absurd!”
“Nothin’ absurd about it that I can see ma’am—Miss Hero. All these Europeans are colonialists. Six of one and half-a-dozen of the other. And not a pin to choose between them.”
“There I cannot agree with you! The French have always hated tyrants and upheld the cause of Freedom and Equality. Well, anyway, ever since the Revolution. And look at the way that Lafayette…I admit they have colonized, but—”
“But the fact is that as a good American you’re for the French and agin’ the British. Which I’ll allow is fair enough, for it’s a thing we’d most of us agree on. But it don’t necessarily make for fair judgement if you’re prejudiced in favour of one party before you start!”
“I would never,” Hero assured him emphatically, “permit personal prejudice to blind me to facts.”
The Captain, finding himself in deep waters, observed with another shrug that speaking for himself he was not particularly interested in the internal affairs of Zanzibar, which were, he thanked the Lord, none of his business. An observation that scandalized Hero, who informed him roundly that Christian people should always be interested in matters that affected public welfare anywhere in the world, and that responsibility towards one’s fellow men should not be limited only to those of one’s own race and colour.
“Oh—sure,” said the Captain woodenly, his face expressionless and his sympathies veering strongly to the side of the volatile, quarrelsome and happily heathen population of Zanzibar, who did not know what was coming to them. “Well ma’am, you’ll soon be able to talk it all over with your uncle and give him your views. I guess his opinions are likely to be worth more than mine—or that young Mossoo’s either, with his ‘Paradise on Earth’ and Arabian Nights twaddle. Paradise indeed! Maybe there’s some who can see it that way, but to my mind it’s no more’n a cross between a cess-pit and a pest-house.”
He had spoken with intentional brutality, but if he had expected to shake Miss Hollis, he failed to do so. Far from being disconcerted she appeared only too willing to accept his unfavourable opinion of Zanzibar, informing him with the greatest cordiality that she had always suspected that a deal too much of what was said and written about the glories of Eastern lands and tropical islands was grossly misleading, since it stood to reason that places where there was so great a degree of heat and such a low level of living and morality could not possibly be other than squalid.
“I reckon it’s squalid, all right,” agreed Captain Thaddaeus. I’ve read that you can smell the scent of cloves and spices far out to sea, but all I’ve ever smelt is the stench of drains and garbage—and worse things! A filthier town I’ve yet to see, and in my opinion it’s no place for a lady. It ain’t any wonder your aunt is feeling poorly. She’d no right to send for you, and that’s a fact.”
“Oh, nonsense, Captain Thaddaeus. My cousin Cressy hasn’t taken any harm, and she’s four years younger than I am. And what’s more, she too thinks that Zanzibar is a lovely and romantic spot! She wrote and told me so.”
“Maybe she’s in love. I’ve heard tell that falling in love is a great thing for putting rose-coloured spectacles on folk.”
“In love? Why, who could she possibly be in love with? There isn’t anyone—”
“There are men even in Zanzibar, ma’am—Miss Hero. That Frenchman’s on his way back there, and there’s a fairish big white community. Consular officials, British Navy men, business men, blackguards—”
“Blackguards? What sort of blackguards?” enquired Hero, intrigued.
“Adventurers. Black sheep. Runagates. Varmints like ‘Roaring Rory.’”
“Who is he?—a pirate? He certainly should be with a name like that!”
“Wouldn’t put it past him,” said Captain Fullbright. “He’s an Englishman, and a mighty ornery one by all accounts. What they’d call a ‘remittance-man,’ I guess. If there’s anything plumb discreditable going on, from black-birding to gun-running, drug-smuggling, kidnapping or murder, you can bet your last dime that Rory Frost’s mixed up in it. Young Dan Larrimore, he’s been laying for him for the past two years, but he ain’t caught him out yet. All he needs is the proof, and he’ll sure get it one day. He’s the perseverin’ kind, is Dan.”
“And who is Dan?”
“Hain’t your cousin Cressy ever made no mention of him? Well, now! An’ here was I thinkin’ that maybe he was responsible for those rose-coloured spectacles. Lieutenant Larrimore is a Limey who commands a little toy gunboat in the name of Queen Victoria, and it’s his painful duty to put down the slave trading in these waters—or try to. He don’t do too badly, considering all things, but he ain’t caught up with Rory Frost yet, and I figure he’d just about give his eye-teeth to do it. Thought he had him once, too—came bang up to Rory in a light wind off Pemba, with the corpse of a nigger floatin’ peaceful in his wake. Dan knew well enough what that meant—there was slaves on board and a dead one had just been pitched over the side. He thought he’d cotched him red-handed, but when he yells to him to heave-to, the Virago cracks on sail and—”
“The what?”
“The Virago: Frost’s ship. He named her, so he should know. Steers wild, they say—like her master.”
“And what happened then? Did he get away?”
“Nope. On account of that gunboat has steam, so in the end it overhauls her. But when they board her there’s narry a smell of a slave. And though Dan Larrimore searches her from stem to stem, not so much as a lick of evidence does he find, and Rory he sticks to it that he knows nothing about any corpse and that it must a’ been some poor nigger who falls off a passing dhow. He apologizes for not heaving-to when requested; explainin’ that he was below having a bite to eat at the time and that his crew had mistook the gunboat for a French slaver. Dan, he was hopping mad, but there weren’t nothing he could do about it. Not even when he hears later that while Rory is drawing him off on this wild goose-chase, an Arab slaver pal of his is running a cargo-load of slaves out of Zanzibar and getting them clean away.”
“You mean he did that on purpose? That it was all a trick, just to…?” Hero turned quite white and her jaw set in a manner that recalled her grandfather, Caleb Crayne, when that gentleman was in one of his rages. She said furiously: “Men like that ought to be hanged!”
“Daresay he will be one day. Born to it, I’d say. And Dan Larrimore would sure like to have the hanging of him. Can’t say as I blame him. Myself, I don’t normally take to the British, but the Lieutenant is a good man, and I’m for him.”
“And you think Cressy is, too?”
“For Dan Larrimore? Waall…I guess she wouldn’t be the first one, for there’s no denying he’s a well set-up man. But I was only guessin’ when I said that about your cousin. It’s getting on for a year since I was last in Zanzibar, and the two of them were only just getting acquainted then; though anyone could see she liked his looks. It was you telling me how she’d said the Island was romantic that give me the idea that maybe something had come of it. On the other hand, Dan ain’t by no means the only man in Zanzibar, and I’ve heard tell that your Aunt Abby and her daughter are well liked by the Sultan’s family. Some of those Arab princes are right handsome men.”
“Handsome? You mean black men?—Africans? Are you suggesting that Cressy—” Hero’s face was rigid with affront.
“Arabs, ma’am! Arabs! They’re neither black nor African, and many of ‘em are as near fair-complexioned as I am: no more than
a trifle sunburned you’d say. The Sultan’s family were Kings of Oman, and they’re a sight prouder of their lineage than your cousin Josiah is of being a Crayne—which you’ll allow is plenty! The men are a fine-looking lot. And I’ve heard tell that some of the palace ladies are as pretty as pictures; though that’s a thing I couldn’t swear to, for they’re kept shut away in the women’s quarters, poor critters. It must be real interesting for them to meet ladies like your Aunt Abby and your cousin Cressy, who can go about anywhere they fancy and not worry about it.”
“Yes indeed,” agreed Hero warmly, her interest instantly diverted: “I shall have to see what I can do for the poor creatures. Perhaps I can arrange to give them classes in cooking and needlework, and teach them how to read and write? It must be terrible to be ignorant and unlettered, and to live little better than prisoners—treated as mere chattels of the male. That is something that will have to be changed.”
Captain Fullbright opened his mouth to remonstrate and then closed it again without speaking. It occurred to him that Miss Hollis was due for several surprises on her arrival at Zanzibar. And also that it was strange to find a young woman so physically and materially well-endowed, obsessed by a zeal for reform. One would have expected her to be more interested, at her age, in balls and beaux than in Good Works and the welfare of coloured races in out-of-the-way and insalubrious portions of the globe. There certainly was no accounting for tastes! She had, he decided, missed her vocation, for she would have made an admirable schoolmarm of the stricter sort. And might yet become one! since from his brief acquaintance with Clayton Mayo (and judging from rumour and hearsay) he could not visualize that handsome, ebullient gentleman being seriously attracted to such an outspoken and probably frigid young woman. Miss Hollis’s views on marriage were enough to chill the most ardent suitor, and he felt sorry for her husband—if she should ever acquire one, which he doubted.
“Handsome is as handsome does,” mused Captain Thaddaeus, scratching thoughtfully at his grizzled beard. Though of course there was always her fortune to be considered, and he supposed she might yet be married for that. A bleak enough prospect for any girl, but perhaps no more than this one deserved. What Amelia could see in her he did not know.
4
Miss Hollis rose with a rustle of black poplin, and straightening the sombre folds above the modest hoops of her crinoline, dabbed the sweat from her brow with a cambric handkerchief.
The few unruly tendrils of chestnut hair that had escaped from the strict confines of her chignon clung damply to the white column of her neck, and she was uncomfortably aware that there were other damp patches under the arms and between the shoulder blades of her tight-fitting, high-cut bodice.
“Is it always as hot and unpleasant as this in the Indian Ocean?” she demanded with a tinge of despair.
“Not when the Trades are blowing,” said Captain Fullbright. “Which I reckon they’ll do soon enough. Why don’t you go below and change into something cooler? You must have gotten yourself a muslin dress among all that gear. Something lighter coloured and looser than those things you’re wearing.”
“Yes, of course I have. But they are for when I am out of mourning. I could not wear them yet. Not for another six months at least. It would not be respectful to Papa. And besides, some people might think that I did not—that I had not—”
Her voice failed her and suddenly there were tears in her eyes. She blinked them away and blew her nose, and said apologetically: “I’m sorry. That was foolish of me. But I do miss him so. You see, I—we were such friends.”
Captain Fullbright was surprised and touched. Yes, there was something lovable there after all; and maybe Clayton Mayo had found it. He said gruffly: “All the more reason ma’am—Miss Hero—why you should act in a way that would have pleased him. And I don’t reckon your Pa would have wished you to bundle yourself up in that smothering black stuff. Not in this kind of weather. It’s plumb unhealthy and I’ve been meaning to speak to Mrs Fullbright about it. Your Pa would have wanted you to keep yourself in good health, and you won’t do that for long if you rig yourself up in such gear as that.”
Hero smiled faintly, but shook her head. “You are very kind, but I would not care to discard my mourning for any such trivial reason. Consideration for one’s personal comfort should not come first. Besides, I cannot believe that this weather can last much longer. Surely we shall find a wind soon?”
“Like I’ve told you—a sight sooner than we’d wish, if the glass is anything to go by,” said the Captain grimly.
He mopped his neck with a bandana handkerchief and escorted Miss Hollis out on to the deck, noting as they went the curious paleness of their shadows and the bubbling pitch between the deck seams, and wishing yet again that Amelia was not on board. Or Miss Hero Hollis either!
The heat in the tiny charthouse had been oppressive, but out on the open deck it was almost unbearable, and Hero paused in a patch of shade, and leaning on the rail looked enviously down at the cool depths below, where the weed of the long voyage stirred and waved like meadow grass.
Apart from the gentle rhythmic snoring of a fellow passenger who lay asleep in a long cane chair under the awning, and a subdued murmur of voices from forward of the weather deck, where the cook’s mate and a cabin boy were fishing hopefully for basking shark, the normal shipboard noises had dwindled to no more than a drowsy creaking of the blocks as the Norah Groyne moved lazily to the slow, glassy swell.
A trickle of sweat crawled down between Hero’s shoulder blades, and suddenly the clogging, sleepy silence of the afternoon seemed curiously sinister; as though the heat and the haze and the stillness had combined to bring Time to a standstill, and left the Norah Crayne suspended in some strange, aimless vacuum between reality and Cloud-cuckoo-land. Doomed to drift until her timbers rotted and her sails fell to dust, and she sank and was lost…
Hero shivered, and was aroused from this unpleasant reverie by footsteps and the cheerful, prosaic voice of the first mate, Mr Marrowby, who stopped beside her to remark affably that it was sticky hot, but that it would be a mighty lot cooler before nightfall.
“Do you really mean that?” asked Hero doubtfully. “I confess it always seems to me to be even hotter at night.”
“Ah, but there’s a wind on its way; and it’s my guess she’ll blow rough.”
“That’s what Captain Fullbright says. But I don’t see any signs of it yet.”
“You can smell it, though. And see over there—”
He pointed a blunt forefinger, and turning to peer out across the silky, shimmering waste. Hero saw what seemed to be a stain far out on the colourless ocean.
“Is that wind?”
“A breath of it. But there’ll be a sight more behind it.”
Captain Fullbright, returning from the forward deck, joined them at the rail, and Mr Marrowby wetted a finger and raising it said: “She freshens, sir.”
The stain on the water flitted towards them, ruffling the glassy surface into a myriad shivering ripples, and a faint breath of air shivered the sails and rattled the top hamper. For the first time in several days the Norah Crayne answered to her helm, and they could feel life flow through her as she woke from her long drowsing and thrust forward, the sea gurgling softly under her cut-water.
The boy at the masthead called: “Deck ahoy! Sail, sir—”
“Where away?” bellowed Mr Marrowby.
“Over the starboard bow, sir. Headed north.”
Mr Marrowby put his spy-glass to his eye and presently announced that it was a relief to raise another sail again, since speaking for himself he found this idling on an empty sea kind of lonesome.
“What kind of ship? I can’t see anything,” said Hero, shading her eyes with her hand.
“Three-masted schooner. But you won’t see far in this haze. There, I’ve lost her now. She was a fairish way out; and moving, which means she’s caught the wind. We’ll be getting it soon, and then it’ll blow this haze clear and we’ll be
on our way again.”
Even as he spoke, another and stronger cat’s-paw of wind ruffled across the water; and all at once the drowsy lethargy of the last two weeks was over, and Hero found herself standing alone while orders rattled and canvas filled to the breeze, and a white lace of foam spun out from the cut-water. The breathless heat of the afternoon gave place to a salty, refreshing coolness that was a deep relief after the sweltering temperature of the past days and the airless torment of the long nights, and they were moving again. They were on their way, and Life and Adventure, the Island of Zanzibar, Destiny and Clayton Mayo, lay ahead.
But by six bells the wind had strengthened ominously, and two hours later it was blowing in savage gusts and the sea was white with foam.
Below decks the cabins were still uncomfortably hot, for with every porthole closed and secured, the wind could not reach them: only the noise and the shuddering lift and plunge as the Norah Crayne, making up for lost time, raced northward under every stitch of canvas she could carry, reeling to the lash of the gale and the surge of the furious sea.
Captain Fullbright’s frail little wife had taken to her bunk over two hours ago, and now she lay clutching a bottle of smelling salts and apologizing incoherently to her charge: “I feel downright ashamed of myself,” whispered Amelia. “It’s just plain degrading…a sailor’s wife! Mr Fullbright used to tell me that I would grow out of it and find what he calls my ‘sea-legs.’ But I never have. Such a bad example to you, honey. Are you sure you feel all right?”
“I feel fine, thank you,” said Hero buoyantly. “Now that we are moving again I can put up with anything. It was that dreadful, aimless drifting that I found so exasperating. Don’t you detest doing nothing and getting nowhere?”
“I can’t say that I do, dear. But then I guess I’m not an energetic person, and maybe it’s just as well that we are not all alike. It would be so dull. Oh…oh mercy!…”