little vessels find their way from port to port,
as they do, without the aid of either compass or
sextant, and how they manage to weather the
terrible storms that at certain seasons of the year
suddenly visit eastern seas. I remember once
coming across a dhow becalmed in the middle of
the Indian Ocean, and its crew making signals of
distress, our captain slowed down to investigate.
There were four men on board, all nearly dead
from thirst; they had been without drink of any
kind for several days and had completely lost their
bearings. After giving them some casks of water,
we directed them to Muscat (the port they wished
to make), and our vessel resumed its journey,
leaving them still becalmed in the midst of that
glassy sea. Whether they managed to reach their
destination I never knew.

As our steamer made its way to its anchorage,
the romantic surroundings of the harbour of
Mombasa conjured up, visions of stirring
adventures of the past, and recalled to my mind the
many tales of reckless doings of pirates and
slavers, which as a boy it had been my delight to
read. I remembered that it was at this very place
that in 1498 the great Vasco da Gama nearly lost
his ship and life through the treachery of his Arab
pilot, who plotted to wreck the vessel on the reef
which bars more than half the entrance to the
harbour. Luckily, this nefarious design was