Chapter XVII The Midget Fleet. Bombardment. Fearful Scenes
When nations or peoples go to war, they invest the Supreme Being with a new title, which is, in my opinion, blasphemous in the extreme. They speak of Him, address Him, pray to Him, as the God of War, or God of Battles.
And, indeed, the priests of both sides do a large amount of praying. Each thinks his own cause the most just, and endeavours to invoke from Heaven strength for armies and navies, and blessings on every shot, so to speak, that shall be fired. And yet, every bursting shell may send hundreds into eternity and seal their doom for ever.
The Prince of Lamoo certainly did his share of praying. He prayed so much on that holy carpet of his, that he narrowly escaped having housemaid’s knee.
But—and it is just here where the absurdity of the situation comes in—between the hours of prayer he went to have another look through his splendid palace, or gave orders for a few more loathsome reptiles to be introduced into the coming king’s bedroom.
And as his fleet sailed south and away, Abdularram prayed also many times and often, never failing between whiles to note whether or not the scimitars and swords of his men, and his own pet dagger, which had so often wept blood, possessed sufficient keenness of edge to please him.
In four or five days’ time the midget fleet were within an easy distance of Zanzibar, but stopped dead now till the darkness should fall.
About six o’clock, as usual in those regions, the sun sank behind the horizon, casting a red gleam of light across the waves, crimson as the blood that would flow ere he once more appeared in the golden east.
Wireless telegraphy had reached its highest pitch of perfection by this time. Indeed, it was possible then to wire wirelessly round the world, as an Irishman expressed it.
And long before the arrival of the little Armada, a passenger steamer, which had it seen it, came tearing into Zanzibar, and made her report to the British Consul.
There was not a moment to spare. A rumour of something terrible on the wing had already reached his ears, and he lost no time in dispatching messages in every direction.
He warned the Sultan also, and his fleet. Then he warned different consulates.
The Sultan had the utmost confidence in his fleet. The fleet hardly scarcely troubled to prepare.
The insolent Armada could be sunk very easily when it came—to-morrow.
The torpedo nets and booms were all in beautiful confusion, but, of course, they could be easily put into order and lowered if necessary—to-morrow.
It was observed, however, that the German and Portuguese consulates had already retired into their forest homes, and as for the Americans, well, they took the hint so kindly given.
The U.S.A. Consul, in a polite note to the British, thanked him for the tip, which would be taken forthwith. The consulate, luckily, he said, was well insured against burglars and fire, in five or six offices. Meanwhile, would the British Consul be good enough to give his, the American Consul’s compliments to the ladies, and say, under the circumstances, it would be impossible to play that game of poker next evening, but that he hoped, etc., etc., etc.
But before either battle or bombardment began, needles began to waggle and prattle on no less than three British cruisers that were on their way from India, also in the wireless telegraphic office at the Cape, and from that messages flew over the sea to send back the Breezy, and on towards Zanzibar with all speed. If the midget fleet had done any mischief, they were to capture, burn, or in other ways destroy it, wherever it could be found.
Nor were the Americans behind hand. The signalling station might be knocked down, or fired, so they must make good use of it before such an accident befel it. As good luck would have it, two Yankee battle-ships of tremendous strength were well within hail. The consul wired them at once, well, he wirelessly wired them, and the message ran somewhat as follows:
“If this Marconi reaches the American battle-ships, Niagara and Delaware, alias Blue Blazes, and the Plunger, will they please make all speed hither to save us, and other American citizens, from the wrath to come to-morrow. Come with your thunders and defend the flag. A fleet of pirates is now on its way to bombard us, and in Zanzibar to-morrow the devil himself will be let loose, and the whole show painted red.”
Nothing more could be done. For shortly after dark, cleared for action, the midget fleet was once more on the wing. A darker nor more dismal night had never been seen in the roadstead before. Nor a wilder, for as if to aid the Armada, a breeze had sprung up, which rapidly increased to half a gale, with the usual accompaniments in these latitudes, of loud thunder and rain, that at one time more resembled the bursting of a waterspout than anything else.
The Sultan’s ships twitched and tugged at their anchors, which some of them even dragged.
On so fearful a night surely the Armada would dare to do nothing, could do nothing. Like the Spanish Armada of the brave days of old, Lamoo’s midget fleet would be scattered or sunk.
The Breezy was making good way southward, when old Marconi began to speak.
Sometime after, little Sneyd ran into the ward-room with a bit of flimsy in his hand. The officers were discussing nips of sherry and bitters, or curaçoa and brandy, or anything good and handy, that would encourage the appetite. Very wrong this was indeed, but dinner would soon be laid, and there was a sad want of excitement among all hands, the depression that always follows a fight, whether victorious or the reverse.
“Honolulu!” cried Sneyd, “I’d give a day’s pay to know who on earth does hold the ribbons in the British Navy.”
“If you did,” said Guilford quietly, “you would make things hum, wouldn’t you, my dear little jumping Moses?”
“But look here. Here’s a pretty go. Here is a blooming muddle! First, we were ordered to fly to the Cape, now we are called back, ordered back, kicked back, confound ’em, I say,
“Confound their politics,
Frustrate their Navy tricks.”
“Hurrah! Hear, hear; but what is it all about?”
“They’re going to board and burn Zanzibar, as far as I can see of it—a fleet from Lamoo is going to bring down the sleepy Sultan by the run.”
The Captain at this moment sent for the first lieutenant, and in two minutes’ time, if not less, the Breezy had turned almost on her own length, and was rushing through the waves at full speed, on her way back to the city of the Arab Sultan.
At this time it was quite the fashionable thing for the foreign resident gentry of this place to have lodges in the sylvan interior, to which they could retreat for real quiet, and real hygiene, for as regards matters sanitary, there was still in the city itself much to be desired.
There were good roads thereto, so men mounted their motors, and hurried their families into what they looked upon as places of safety.
But for the most part, they themselves returned to see the fun, as they phrased it. Then came on the terrible storm. Whatever might happen now, they must bear the brunt of it.
Abdularram was as fierce in his wrath as any Viking of old, for his hatred of his foes, the British, no amount of blood could ever quench. He had felt highly honoured when he was appointed Arab Admiral of the midget fleet. His Sultan told him that he admired his courage, his wisdom, and fighting qualities. But, there was one proviso that, brave as he was, Abdularram did not quite care about. He, this mighty chieftain, would remain Admiral of the fleet as long as he lived, on one condition only, namely, that he returned to the palace with his enemy alive, if he did not, he should be deposed, and cast into the dungeon, so well prepared, there to die and rot. He even permitted Abdularram to take a lantern, and enter the dreadful place, and have one look around. This, he felt certain, would impress his Admiral. Abdularram did as he was bid, had one peep round, and rushed out again, apparently in all the terrors of some ghastly nightmare. The dungeon had certainly impressed him, so much so, that he made a vow never to enter there again.
On such a night as this no officer of the Sultan’s fleet dreamt of an attack. If the enemy were really approaching, they would wait for sunrise, then the Sultan’s fleet would be under weigh to meet theirs.
Had it been calm, it would have been impossible for a ship of any kind to approach the anchored fleet without being heard. There were the roar of the wind, the rage of the lashing waves, lit up every now and then by spectral lightning, and the artillery crash of the thunder.
But shortly before midnight, and while the British Consul himself, with one or two friends, sat in an unlit room, smoking and occasionally gazing seawards, suddenly the pitch darkness out yonder was lit up with the fires of death and destruction. An explosion was heard, far louder and awe-inspiring than any that ever before had shaken the city’s foundations.
One of the biggest ships was blown up, literally broken into two gigantic fragments, the red ends of which shot up into the air in the centre of a perfect volcano of light and fire. In the midst of this, could be seen, along with debris of every description, the mangled and dismembered bodies of scores of poor wretches, who had not been given time even to utter a cry or explanation.
Then a seething plunge, as the wreck sunk down, followed by a darkness that could be, metaphorically speaking, cut with a sabre.
But pieces of the wreck were hurled as far as the sands, on which they fell, still hot and blazing.
Another explosion took place very soon after. It was, if anything, more horrible. A third, a fourth, and a fifth.
The torpedoes had done their terrible work with a completeness that had never before been equalled.
Two vessels, had not been sunk, but one of these had taken fire, white smoke spued up from her first, then flames quickly spreading fore and aft.
And by the light of this blaze of war the Sultan’s flagship could still be seen swaying safe and stately at her moorings.
A more terrible, because less sudden fate was reserved for her.
Abdularram knew his business. He knew that three or four times a week the youthful Sultan was in the habit of sleeping on board this battle-ship, the after quarters having been furnished for his sake with all the luxuriousness of an eastern palace.
“He may be there to-night,” thought the great chief, “and I have orders to make him prisoner. Never a torpedo must be fired in her direction, never a hair of the monarch’s head must fall to the ground.”
Guided by telephonic communication with Admiral Abdularram’s ship, the midget fleet had pierced the darkness in two lines, and taken up positions in the same formation in which Nelson had placed his ships at the battle of the Nile.
Arab’s eyes are more used to darkness than a European’s, so with their twinkling lights, that the Zanzibarees had not even taken the precaution to put out, each ship in the anchored fleet could be correctly positioned. Apart from this, the lightning that flickered and flashed ghost-like about their hulls would have given the clue to the enemy.
This great flagship now began to vomit forth fire and shot and shell, and the rattle of her belching guns was louder far than the loudest thunder.
But in the inky night there was now no visible target, for the burning ship had soon blown up. They might as well have fired in the empty air.
Then flashlights were turned upon her by the enemy, lighting her up fitfully, and for a moment or two only.
For the time being, the streams of electric light were only necessary to guide the midgets towards her.
Five of these latter surrounded her, and a hellish legion of fierce cutlass-armed fighting Arabs swarmed on board of her.
There had been a sudden lull in the storm, the thunder had also ceased to rattle, though the seas still lashed in fury. It was as if Nature appalled, held her breath to witness the horrors of the fight that was now raging on the battle decks of the Sultan’s flagship.
The cries, the yells, the wild appeals for mercy, could be distinctly heard at the Consul’s window, and added to the horror of this terrible night.
But it was soon over. The crew had all been slain, or leapt overboard in wild panic, and those who remained alive were rushed below and imprisoned, The Sultan was not found.
The flagship’s fires had been found banked, and soon after her capture, with every light extinguished, she was steaming out to sea.
About the same time flash lights began to gleam from the Sultan’s palace, and the forts opened fire at last.
A bit of useless braggadocio, for had the enemy been visible, which they were not, those gunners could not have hit a single ship. In fact, there is strong reason for believing that when a gun was trained, or a broadside to be fired by electricity the men placed their fingers in their ears and fell flat on the gallery floor.
The midget fleet, it was believed, had gone for the night. It was swallowed up in the black beyond. The Sultan, terror-stricken now, and weeping like a boy of ten, had been shut up in the inner recesses of his palace, and his bodyguard tripled.
The enemy had retired, it is true, but in three hours’ time it gave ample evidence that, instead of having gone for good, it lingered out yonder for evil.
Without doubt it had come to stay until it had accomplished the object of its mission.
But now the sky had cleared, and the calm had come.
Out shone the radiant stars, and a moon in its last quarter shed silver radiance on the sea.
The beach at Zanzibar is of clearest sand, the blocks of buildings facing the roadstead whiter than granite, and in the dim light of the stars and scimitar moon they could be easily seen at a distance of two miles, and even at this long distance, with his midget fleet, Abdularram, knowing well the accuracy of his gunners’ aim, commenced the bombardment of Zanzibar.
Their plan was to watch and wait till a volume of white smoke with a centre of fire showed out on shore, and to aim and fire at that particular spot.
The Admiral of the fleet thought that by this means he would manage soon to silence the forts.
He knew the British Consulate, and guns were laid, and, indeed, for every white block of building it was possible to distinguish, with the exception of the palace itself.
His desire was to show the Sultan that so long as he remained there he was safe.
Zanzibar’s guns, however, took much longer to silence than Abdularram could have credited; and when the sun once more rose over the sea, the shells from the fort being now better planted, he considered it prudent to take up a position farther away, where he knew his vessel would be safe.
This Arab Viking, if the truth must be told, was more at home in a sailing fighting dhow than in a ship of war.
He had, nevertheless, performed one of the most wonderful feats of modern times, namely, the boarding and carrying by cutlass and revolver of a great and mighty battle-ship.
After a time there was a lull in the firing from both sides.
Abdularram felt himself sure of that city. Zanzibar, he told his captain, was sure to fall, and its Sultan, to say nothing of the best part of his harem, would be in his power.
“And after that, your Highness?” the captain asked, with an evil glare in his eye.
“After that,” replied Abdularram, “the looting and sacking of the city.”
He smiled grimly as he thought of it. The cruelty of the pirates in days of old has hardly any parallel in the twentieth century, and I now ask myself, ere penning the concluding lines of this chapter, whether I should tell my young readers anything of the tragedy that now took place on board the conquered battleship. I shall do so in the simplest language I can command, and in the least graphic. And I do this much, because I know and feel that our British boys, who I trust will grow up good and brave defenders of their fatherland, may realize some of the horrors of naval warfare.
And savage and ruthless as Abdularram was, he was no worse than Napoleon Buonaparte, who slew his prisoners by thousands.
Few Arabs are such devils at heart as Buonaparte was, and even this man before giving orders for the deed of horror to be committed, led gradually up to it in a conversation with Captain Suleiman.
“My Captain,” he said, “those men of the Mahomed’s Pride (the flagship) fought well and bravely.”
“Alas! yes, as our dead and wounded can testify,” was the cautious reply.
“They nevertheless encumber us greatly; but though, no doubt, you have them securely battened down they were sealed up so quickly that it was impossible disarm them. They have still their swords and cutlasses?”
“Yes, sahib.”
“I mean to man the guns of Mahomed with our own brave fellows, and turn them against the city.
“Yes, good sahib.”
“But what if, at the very commencement of the fight, the prisoners break loose from the hold, like a horde of foul fiends, and attempt to retake the ship, and if successful, turn her powerful guns on our midget fleet?”
“I do not fear for that; we could overpower them, I think,” said Suleiman.
“Yes, I believe we might, but the slaughter would be harrowing.”
His captain did not answer. He waited.
“It would be best of all,” said the Admiral, at last, “to get rid of them in a more humane and safer way. Suleiman,” he added, “it must be done!”
And Suleiman knew what was meant, and that the order for the execution of two hundred prisoners had to be given by him.
“The die is cast!” said Abdularram.
And he walked aft to smoke a pipe of opium. The plank was rigged, it was long, wide, well-balanced, and commanded at the ship end by a strong rope.
The further end was made slippery with vegetable oil.
The prisoners were then ordered up in batches of ten—disarmed, of course.
The poor fellows knew their doom, and most of them went quietly to death.
But the scene was soul-harrowing, for some of them refused to mount, and even attempted to fly at the necks of their enemies.
I’ll go no further, only to say, that all throughout this awful and sickening execution, the battle-ship was going ahead at full speed, lest some of the unhappy wretches should attempt in their agony to clamber back on board again.
When it was all over, the decks were sluiced down, but not properly cleaned, so that blood still lurked dark in cracks and seams.
Then laying down his little pipe, Abdularram, in his jewelled uniform, stalked stately forth from his room.
“They have gone?” he said.
“Yes, sahib.”
“Thank Allah! He has delivered His enemies and ours into our hands. Breakfast, and prayers, now, Suleiman.”
The breakfast was no mockery, but surely the prayers were.
After all this, well knowing the advantage and restorative power of rest, Abdularram ordered every man who could be spared to lie down and sleep.
And motionless for hours upon the blue bosom of the great deep, lay the midget fleet, and the huge and stately battleship.