We had to tack toward Muanza for a quarter of a mile with fear in our arms to make them clumsy before I dared believe we were clear of the reefs; but when I put the helm down at last there was neither launch in sight nor any other boat that might contain an enemy.  The southern spur of Ukerewe stuck out like a wedge into boiling water not many miles ahead, and once around that we should be sheltered.  The only fly in the ointment then was the probability that the launch would be waiting for us just around the spur, or else under the lee of another smaller island in the offing to our left, but what we could not see in that hour could not upset us much.

Every one clamored for food.  The porters, already forgetful of the chain that had galled them, and the whips that had flayed them day and night, demanded to be set ashore to build a fire and eat.  Lady Saffren Waldon awoke to fresh bad temper, and Coutlass, too, grew villainously impatient.  His Greek friend, from under the shelter of the leaky reed-and-tarpaulin deck, offered him Greek advice, and was cursed for his trouble.  One curse led to another, and then they both had to be beaten into subjection with the first thing handy, because when they fought Lady Saffren Waldon egged them on and the maid tried to savage the other Greek with a brooch-pin, which brought out the Goanese to the rescue.  That crowded dhow was no place for pitched battles, plunging and rolling between the frying-pan of Muanza and the fire of unknown things ahead.

“One more outbreak from you, and I shoot!” Fred announced, patting the rifle.  But, he did not mean it, and Coutlass knew he did not.  The English temperament does not turn readily on even the most rascally fellow beings in distress.  Besides, it was an indubitable fact that we all much preferred Coutlass, with his daring record, and now a most outrageous love-affair on hand, to the other Greek or the Goanese, who were now disposed to bid for our friendship by abusing him.  Georges Coutlass was no drawing-room darling, or worthy citizen of any land, but he had courage of a kind, and a sort of splendid fire that made men forget his turpitude.

We were a seasick, cold and sorry company that rounded the point at last and came to anchor in a calm shallow bay where fuel grew close down to the water’s edge.  Having no small boat, we had to wade ashore and carry the women, Coutlass attending to his own inamorata.  Lady Saffren Waldon’s picric acid rage exploded by being dropped between two porters waist-deep into the water.  It was her fault.  She insisted one was not enough, yet refused to explain how two should do the work of one.  Sitting on their two shoulders, holding on by their hair, she frightened the left-hand man by losing her balance and clutching his nose and eyes.  She insisted on having both men flogged for having dropped her, and Fred’s refusal was the signal for new war, our rescue of her being flung at once on to the scrap heap of her memory.