Chapter Twenty Two.
Led into Captivity.
We turn once more to the Nubian desert, where, it will be remembered, we left several of our friends, cut off from McNeill’s zereba at a critical moment when they were all but overwhelmed by a host of foes.
The grand-looking Arab who had so opportunely appeared on the scene and arrested the spears which were about to finish the career of Jack Molloy was no other than the man who had been saved by Miles from the bullet of his comrade Rattling Bill. A kind act had in this case received its appropriate reward, for a brief though slight glance, and a gracious inclination of the Arab’s head, convinced our hero that the whole party owed their lives to this man’s gratitude.
They were not however exempt from indignity, for at the moment when Jack Molloy fell they were overwhelmed by numbers, their arms were wrenched from their grasp, and their hands were bound behind their backs. Thus they were led, the reverse of gently, into the thick bush by a strong party of natives, while the others, headed by the black-bearded chief, continued their attack on the zereba.
It soon became evident that the men who had charge of the prisoners did not share, or sympathise with, the feelings of the chief who had spared their lives, for they not only forced them to hurry forward as fast as they could go, but gave them occasional pricks with their spear-points when any of them chanced to trip or stumble. One of the warriors in particular—a fiery man—sometimes struck them with the shaft of his spear and otherwise maltreated them. It may be easily understood that men with unbroken spirits and high courage did not submit to this treatment with a good grace!
Miles was the first to be tested in this way. On reaching a piece of broken ground his foot caught in something and he stumbled forward. His hands being bound behind him he could not protect his head, and the result was that he plunged into a prickly shrub, out of which he arose with flushed and bleeding countenance. This was bad enough, but when the fiery Arab brought a lance down heavily on his shoulders his temper gave way, and he rushed at the man in a towering rage, striving at the same time, with intense violence, to burst his bonds. Of course he failed, and was rewarded by a blow on the head, which for a moment or two stunned him.
Seeing this, Armstrong’s power of restraint gave way, and he sprang to the rescue of his friend, but only to meet the same fate at the hands of the fiery Arab.
Stunned and bleeding, though not subdued, they were compelled to move on again at the head of the party—spurred on now and then by a touch from the point of the fiery man’s lance. Indeed it seemed as if this man’s passionate nature would induce him ere long to risk his chief’s wrath by disobeying orders and stabbing the prisoners!
Stevenson, the marine, was the next to suffer, for his foot slipped on a stone, and he fell with such violence as to be unable to rise for a few minutes. Impatient of the delay, the fiery man struck him so savagely with the spear-shaft that even his own comrades remonstrated.
“If I could only burst this cord!” growled Simkin between his teeth, “I’d—”
He stopped, for he felt that it was unmanly, as well as idle, to boast in the circumstances.
“We must have patience, comrade,” said Stevenson, as he rose pale and bloodstained from the ground. “Our Great Captain sometimes gives us the order to submit and suffer and—”
A prick in the fleshy part of his thigh caused him to stop abruptly.
At this point the endurance of Jack Molloy failed him, and he also “went in” for violent action! But Jack was a genius as well as a sailor, and profited by the failures of his comrades. Instead of making futile efforts to break his bonds like them, he lowered his hairy head, and, with a howl and a tremendous rush, like a fish-torpedo, launched himself, or, as it were, took “a header,” into the fiery man!
“No fellow,” as Jack himself afterwards remarked, “could receive fifteen stone ten into his bread-basket and go on smiling!” On the contrary, he went down like a nine-pin, and remained where he fell, for his comrades—who evidently did not love him—merely laughed and went on their way, leaving him to revive at his leisure.
The prisoners advanced somewhat more cheerfully after this event, for, besides being freed from pricks of the spear-point, there was that feeling of elation which usually arises in every well-balanced mind from the sight of demerit meeting with its appropriate reward.
The region over which they were thus led, or driven, was rather more varied than the level country behind them, and towards evening it changed still further, becoming more decidedly hill-country. At night the party found themselves in the neighbourhood of one of the all-important wells of the land, beside which they encamped under a small tree.
Here the prisoners were allowed to sit down on the ground, with one man to guard them, while the others kindled a fire and otherwise arranged the encampment.
Supper—consisting of a small quantity of boiled corn and dried flesh—was given to the prisoners, whose hands were set free, though their elbows were loosely lashed together, and their feet tied to prevent their escape. No such idea, however, entered into the heads of any of them, for they were by that time in the heart of an unknown range of hills, in a country which swarmed with foes, besides which, they would not have known in what direction to fly had they been free to do so; they possessed neither arms, ammunition, nor provisions, and were at the time greatly exhausted by their forced march.
Perhaps Jack Molloy was the only man of the unfortunate party who at that moment retained either the wish or the power to make a dash for freedom. But then Jack was an eccentric and exceptional man in every respect. Nothing could quell his spirit, and it was all but impossible to subdue his body. He was what we may term a composite character. His frame was a mixture of gutta-percha, leather, and brass. His brain was a compound of vivid fancy and slow perception. His heart was a union of highly inflammable oil and deeply impressible butter, with something remarkably tough in the centre of it. Had he been a Red Indian he would have been a chief. If born a nigger he would have been a king. In the tenth century he might have been a Sea-king or something similar. Born as he was in the nineteenth century, he was only a Jack-tar and a hero!
It is safe to conclude that if Molloy had been set free that evening with a cutlass in his hand he would—after supper of course—have attacked single-handed the united band of forty Arabs, killed at least ten of them, and left the remaining thirty to mourn over their mangled bodies and the loss of numerous thumbs and noses, to say nothing of other wounds and bruises.
Luckily for his comrades he was not free that night.
“Boys,” said he, after finishing his scanty meal, and resting on an elbow as he looked contemplatively up at the stars which were beginning to twinkle in the darkening sky, “it do seem to me, now that I’ve had time to think over it quietly, that our only chance o’ gittin’ out o’ this here scrape is to keep quiet, an’ pretend that we’re uncommon fond of our dear Arab friends, till we throws ’em off their guard, an’ then, some fine night, give ’em the slip an’ make sail across the desert for Suakim.”
“No doubt you’re right,” answered Miles, with a sigh, for, being tired and sleepy just then, he was not nearly as sanguine as the seaman, “but I have not much hope of gaining their confidence—especially after your acting the thunderbolt so effectively on one of them.”
“Why, man alive! they won’t mind that. It was all in the way of fair fight,” said Molloy; “an’ the rascal was no favourite, I could see that.”
“It’s a wonder to me you could see anything at all after such a ram!” remarked Moses Pyne, with a yawn, as he lay back and rested his head on a tuft of grass. “The shock seemed to me fit to sink an iron-clad.”
“But why pretend to be fond of the Arabs?” asked Stevenson. “Don’t you think it would be sufficient that we should obey orders quietly without any humbug or pretence at all about it, till a chance to escape shall come in our way?”
“Don’t you think, Stevenson,” said Miles, “that there’s a certain amount of humbug and pretence even in quiet obedience to orders, when such obedience is not the result of submission, but of a desire to throw people off their guard?”
“But my obedience is the result of submission,” returned the marine stoutly. “I do really submit—first, because it is God’s will, for I cannot help it; second, because it is the only course that will enable me to escape bad treatment; third, because I wish to gain the good-will of the men who have me in their power whether I escape or not; and, fourth—”
“Hallo! old man, how many heads are you goin’ to give us in that there sermon?” asked Moses.
“This is the last head, Moses, and you needn’t be anxious, for I ain’t going to enlarge on any of ’em. My fourth reason is, that by doing as common-sense bids me, our foes will be brought thereby to that state of mind which will be favourable to everything—our escape included—and I can’t help that, you know. It ain’t my fault if they become trustful, is it?”
“No, nor it ain’t no part o’ your dooty to spoil their trustfulness by failin’ to take advantage of it,” said Molloy, with a grin; “but it do seem to me, Stevenson, as if there wor a strong smack o’ the Jesuit in what you say.”
“I hope not,” replied the marine. “Anyhow, no one would expect me, surely, to go an’ say straight out to these fellows, ‘I’m goin’ to obey orders an’ be as meek as a lamb, in order to throw you off your guard an’ bolt when I get the chance!’”
“Cer’nly not. ’Cause why? Firstly, you couldn’t say it at all till you’d learned Arabic,” returned Molloy; “secondly—if I may be allowed for to follow suit an’ sermonise—’cause you shouldn’t say it if you could; an’, thirdly, ’cause you’d be a most awful Jack-ass to say it if you did. Now, it’s my advice, boys, that we go to sleep, for we won’t have an easy day of it to-morrow, if I may judge from to-day.”
Having delivered this piece of advice with much decision, the seaman extended himself at full length on the ground, and went to sleep with a pleased smile on his face, as if the desert sand had been his familiar couch from infancy.
Some of the other members of the unfortunate party were not, however, quite so ready for sleep. Miles and his friend Armstrong sat long talking over their fate—which they mutually agreed was a very sad one; but at last, overcome by exhaustion, if not anxiety, they sank into much-needed repose, and the only sound that broke the stillness of the night was the tread of the Arab sentinel as he paced slowly to and fro.
The country, as they advanced, became more and more rugged, until they found themselves at last in the midst of a hill region, in the valleys of which there grew a considerable amount of herbage and underwood. The journey here became very severe to the captives, for, although they did not suffer from thirst so much as on the plains, the difficulty of ascending steep and rugged paths with their hands bound was very great. It is true the position of the hands was changed, for after the second day they had been bound in front of them, but this did not render their toil easy, though it was thereby made a little less laborious.
By this time the captives had learned from experience that if they wished to avoid the spear-points they must walk in advance of their captors at a very smart pace. Fortunately, being all strong and healthy men, they were well able to do so.
Rattling Bill, perhaps, suffered most, although, after Molloy, he was physically one of the strongest of the party.
Observing that he lagged behind a little on one occasion while they were traversing a somewhat level valley, Stevenson offered him his arm.
“Don’t be ashamed to take it, old boy,” said the marine kindly, as his comrade hesitated. “You know, a fellow sometimes feels out o’ sorts, and not up to much, however stout he may be when well, so just you lay hold, for somehow I happen to feel as strong as an elephant to-day.”
“But I ain’t ill,” returned Simkin, still declining, “and I don’t see why I shouldn’t be as able as you are to carry my own weight.”
“Of course you are better able to do it than I am, in a general way,” returned his friend, “but I said that sometimes, you know, a fellow gives in, he don’t well know why or how, an’ then, of course, his comrades that are still strong are bound to help him. Here, hook on and pocket your pride. You’ll have to do the same thing for me to-morrow, may-hap, when I give in. And if it does come to that I’ll lean heavy, I promise you.”
“You’re a good fellow, Stevenson, even though you are a Blue Light,” said Simkin, taking the proffered arm.
“Perhaps it’s because I am a Blue Light,” returned the marine, with a laugh. “At all events, it is certain that whatever good there may be about me at all is the result of that Light which is as free to you as to me.”
For some minutes the couple walked along in silence. At last Rattling Bill spoke.
“I wonder,” he said, “why it is that a young and healthy fellow like me should break down sooner than you, Stevenson, for I’m both bigger and stronger—and yet, look at us new. Ain’t it strange! I wonder why it is.”
“It is strange, indeed,” returned the marine quietly. “P’r’aps the climate suits me better than you.”
“I know what you’re thinkin’,” said Simkin, almost testily. “Why don’t you say that drink is the cause of it—straight out, like a man?”
“Because I knew you were saying that to yourself, lad, so there was no need for me to say it,” returned his friend, with a side-glance and a twinkle of the eyes.
“Well, whoever says it, it’s a fact,” continued Simkin, almost sternly, “an’ I make no bones of admitting it. I have bin soakin’ away, right and left, since I came to this country, in spite o’ warnin’s from you and other men like you, and now I feel as if all my boasted strength was goin’ out at my heels.”
Stevenson was silent.
“Why don’t you say ‘I told you so?’” asked Simkin, sharply.
“Because I never say that! It only riles people; besides,” continued the marine, earnestly, “I was asking God at the moment to enable me to answer you wisely. You see, I think it only fair to reveal some of my private thoughts to you, since you are making a father-confessor of me. But as you admit that drink has done you damage, my dear fellow, there is no need for me to say anything more on that subject. What you want now is encouragement as to the future and advice as to the present. Shall I give you both just now, or shall I wait?”
“‘Commence firing!’” replied Simkin, with a half-jesting smile.
“Well, then, as to encouragement,” said Stevenson. “A point of vital importance with men who have gone in for drink as much as you have, is total-abstinence; and I regard it as an evidence of God’s love to you that He has brought you here—”
“God’s love that brought me here!” exclaimed the soldier in surprise. “Well, that is a view o’ the case that don’t seem quite plain.”
“Plain enough if you open your eyes wide enough. See here: If you was in camp now, with your present notions, and was to determine to give up drink, you’d have to face and fight two most tremendous devils. One devil is called Craving, the other is called Temptation, and all the Arabs in the Soudan rolled into one are not so terrible or so strong as these two when a man is left to fight them by himself. Now, is it not a sign of our Father’s love that he has, by bringing you here, removed the devil Temptation entirely out of your way, for you can’t get strong drink here for love or money. So, you see, you have only got Craving to fight, and that’s encouraging, ain’t it?”
“D’ye know, I believe you are not far wrong,” said Simkin, gravely; “and it is encouraging to know that Temptation’s out o’ the way, for I feel that the other devil has got me by the throat even now, and that it’s him as has weakened me so much.”
“That’s it, friend. You’ve got the truth by the tail now, so hold on; but, at the same time, don’t be too hard on Craving. It’s not his fault that he’s here. You have poured liquor down your throat to him daily, and cultivated his acquaintance, and helped him to increase his strength regularly, for many months—it may be for years. I don’t want to be hard on you, lad, but it’s of no use shiftin’ the burden on to the wrong shoulders. It is not Craving but you who are the sinner. Now, as to advice: do you really want it?”
“Well,” replied Simkin, with a “humph!” “it will be time enough for you to shut up when I sound the ‘cease firing!’”
“My advice, then, is that you go down on your knees, plead guilty straight off, and ask for grace to help you in your time of need.”
“What! go down on my knees here before all them Arabs? If I did, they’d not only laugh at me, but they’d soon rouse me up with their spears.”
“I’m not so sure about that, Simkin. Arabs are accustomed to go on their own knees a good deal in public. It is chiefly Christians who, strange to say, are ashamed to be caught in that position at odd times. But I speak not of ceremonies, but of realities. A man may go on his knees, without bending a joint, any time and everywhere. Now, listen: there is this difference between the courts of men and the court of heaven, that in the former, when a man pleads guilty, his sentence is only modified and softened, but in the latter, the man who pleads guilty receives a free pardon and ultimate deliverance from all sin for the sake of Jesus Christ. Will you accept this deliverance, my friend?”
What the soldier replied in his heart we cannot tell, for his voice was silent. Before the conversation could be resumed a halt was called, to partake of the midday meal and rest.
That evening the party came upon a strange and animated scene. It was one of the mountain camps of Osman Digna, where men were assembling from all quarters to swell the hordes with which their chief hoped to drive the hated Europeans into the Red Sea. Camels and other beasts of burden were bringing in supplies for the vast army, and to this spot had been brought the poor fellows who had been wounded in recent battles.
Here the captives were thrust into a small dark hut and left to their meditations, while a couple of Arab sentries guarded the door.
Chapter Twenty Three.
Shows that Suffering tends to draw out Sympathy.
The word captivity, even when it refers to civilised lands and peoples, conveys, we suspect, but a feeble and incorrect idea to the minds of those who have never been in a state of personal bondage. Still less do we fully appreciate its dread significance when it refers to foreign lands and barbarous people.
It was not so much the indignities to which the captive Britons were subjected that told upon them ultimately, as the hard, grinding, restless toil, and the insufficient food and rest—sometimes accompanied with absolute corporeal pain.
“A merciful man is merciful to his beast.” There is not much of mercy to his beast in an Arab. We have seen an Arab, in Algiers, who made use of a sore on his donkey’s back as a sort of convenient spur! It is exhausting to belabour a thick-skinned and obstinate animal with a stick. It is much easier, and much more effective, to tickle up a sore, kept open for the purpose, with a little bit of stick, while comfortably seated on the creature’s back. The fellow we refer to did that. We do not say or think that all Arabs are cruel; very far from it, but we hold that, as a race, they are so. Their great prophet taught them cruelty by example and precept, and the records of history, as well as of the African slave-trade, bear witness to the fact that their “tender mercies” are not and never have been conspicuous!
At first, as we have shown, indignities told pretty severely on the unfortunate Englishmen. But, as time went on, and they were taken further and further into the interior, and heavy burdens were daily bound on their shoulders, and the lash was frequently applied to urge them on, the keen sense of insult which had at first stirred them into wild anger became blunted, and at last they reached that condition of partial apathy which renders men almost indifferent to everything save rest and food. Even the submissive Stevenson was growing callous. In short, that process had begun which usually ends in making men either brutes or martyrs.
As before, we must remark that Jack Molloy was to some extent an exception. It did seem as if nothing but death itself could subdue that remarkable man. His huge frame was so powerful that he seemed to be capable of sustaining any weight his tyrants chose to put upon him. And the influence of hope was so strong within him that it raised him almost entirely above the region of despondency.
This was fortunate for his comrades in misfortune, for it served to keep up their less vigorous spirits.
There was one thing about the seaman, however, which they could not quite reconcile with his known character. This was a tendency to groan heavily when he was being loaded. To be sure, there was not much reason for wonder, seeing that the Arabs forced the Herculean man to carry nearly double the weight borne by any of his companions, but then, as Miles once confidentially remarked to Armstrong, “I thought that Jack Molloy would rather have died than have groaned on account of the weight of his burden; but, after all, it is a tremendously heavy one—poor fellow!”
One day the Arabs seemed to be filled with an unusual desire to torment their victims. A man had passed the band that day on a fast dromedary, and the prisoners conjectured that he might have brought news of some defeat of their friends, which would account for their increased cruelty. They were particularly hard on Molloy that day, as if they regarded him as typical of British strength, and, therefore, an appropriate object of revenge. After the midday rest, they not only put on him his ordinary burden, but added to the enormous weight considerably, so that the poor fellow staggered under it, and finally fell down beneath it, with a very dismal groan indeed!
Of course the lash was at once applied, and under its influence the sailor rose with great difficulty, and staggered forward a few paces, but only to fall again. This time, however, he did not wait for the lash, but made very determined efforts of his own accord to rise and advance, without showing the smallest sign of resentment. Even his captors seemed touched, for one of them removed a small portion of his burden, so that, thereafter, the poor fellow proceeded with less difficulty, though still with a little staggering and an occasional groan.
That night they reached a village near the banks of a broad river, where they put up for the night. After their usual not too heavy supper was over, the prisoners were thrust into a sort of hut or cattle-shed, and left to make themselves as comfortable as they could on the bare floor.
“I don’t feel quite so much inclined for sleep to-night,” said Miles to Molloy.
“No more do I,” remarked the sailor, stretching himself like a wearied Goliath on the earthen floor, and placing his arms under his head for a pillow.
“I feel pretty well used up too,” said Simkin, throwing himself down with a sigh that was more eloquent than his tongue. He was indeed anything but Rattling Bill by that time.
Moses Pyne being, like his great namesake, a meek man, sympathised with the others, but said nothing about himself, though his looks betrayed him. Armstrong and Stevenson were silent. They seemed too much exhausted to indulge in speech.
“Poor fellow!” said Moses to Molloy, “I don’t wonder you are tired, for you not only carried twice as much as any of us, but you took part of my load. Indeed he did, comrades,” added Moses, turning to his friends with an apologetic air. “I didn’t want him to do it, but he jerked part o’ my load suddenly out o’ my hand an’ wouldn’t give it up again; an’, you know, I didn’t dare to make a row, for that would have brought the lash down on both of us. But I didn’t want him to carry so much, an’ him so tired.”
“Tired!” exclaimed the sailor, with a loud laugh. “Why, I warn’t tired a bit. An’, you know, you’d have dropped down, Moses, if I hadn’t helped ye at that time.”
“Well, I confess I was ready to drop,” returned Moses, with a humbled look; “but I would much rather have dropped than have added to your burden. How can you say you wasn’t tired when you had fallen down only five minutes before, an’ groaned heavily when you rose, and your legs trembled so? I could see it!”
To this the seaman’s only reply was the expansion of his huge but handsome mouth, the display of magnificent teeth, the disappearance of both eyes, and a prolonged quiet chuckle.
“Why, what’s the matter with you, Jack?” asked Stevenson.
“Nothin’s the matter wi’ me, old man—’cept—”
Here he indulged in another chuckle.
“Goin’ mad, with over-fatigue,” said Simkin, looking suspiciously at him.
“Ay, that’s it, messmate, clean mad wi’ over-fatigue.”
He wiped his eyes with the hairy back of his hand, for the chuckling, being hearty, had produced a few tears.
“No, but really, Jack, what is it you’re laughing at?” asked Armstrong. “If there is a joke you might as well let us have the benefit of laughing along wi’ you, for we stand much in need of something to cheer us here.”
“Well, Billy boy, I may as well make a clean breast of it,” said Molloy, raising himself on one elbow and becoming grave. “I do confess to feelin’ raither ashamed o’ myself, but you mustn’t be hard on me, lads, for circumstances alters cases, you know, as Solomon said—leastwise if it warn’t him it was Job or somebody else. The fact is, I’ve bin shammin’, mates!”
“Shamming!”
“Ay, shammin’ weak. Purtendin’ that I was shaky on the legs, an’ so not quite up to the cargo they were puttin’ aboard o’ me.”
“If what you’ve been doing means shamming weak, I’d like to see you coming out strong,” observed Miles, with a short laugh.
“Well, p’r’aps you’ll see that too some day,” returned the sailor, with an amiable look.
“But do you really mean that all that groaning—which I confess to have been surprised at—was mere pretence?”
“All sham. Downright sneakin’!” said Molloy. “The short an’ the long of it is, that I see’d from the first the on’y way to humbug them yellow-faced baboons was to circumwent ’em. So I set to work at the wery beginnin’.”
“Ah, by takin’ a header,” said Simkin, “into one o’ their bread-baskets!”
“No, no!” returned the seaman, “that, I confess, was a mistake. But you’ll admit, I’ve made no more mistakes o’ the same sort since then. You see, I perceived that, as my strength is considerable above the average, the baboons would be likely to overload me, so, arter profound excogitation wi’ myself, I made up my mind what to do, an’ when they had clapped on a little more than the rest o’ you carried I began to groan, then I began to shake a bit in my timbers, an’ look as if I was agoin’ to founder. It didn’t check ’em much, for they’re awful cruel, so I went fairly down by the head. I had a pretty fair guess that this would bring the lash about my shoulders, an’ I was right, but I got up wery slowly an’ broken-down-like, so that the baboons was fairly humbugged, and stopped loadin’ of me long afore I’d taken in a full cargo—so, you see, boys, I’ve bin sailin’ raither light than otherwise.”
“But do you mean to tell me that the load you’ve bin carryin’ is not too heavy for you?” asked Moses.
“That’s just what I does mean to tell you, lad. I could carry a good deal more, an’ dance with it. You see, they ain’t used to men o’ my size, so I was able to humbug ’em into a miscalkilation. I on’y wish I could have helped you all to do the same, but they’re too ’cute, as the Yankees say. Anyway, Moses, you don’t need to trouble your head when I gives you a helpin’ hand again.”
“Ah, that expression, ‘a helping hand,’ sounds familiar in my ears,” said Stevenson, in a sad tone.
“Yes, what do it recall, lad?” asked Molloy, extending himself again on his broad back.
“It recalls places and friends in Portsmouth, Jack, that we may never again set eyes on. You remember the Institoot? Well, they’ve got a new branch o’ the work there for the surrounding civilian poor, called the Helping Hand. You see, Miss Robinson understands us soldiers out and out. She knew that those among us who gave up drink and sin, and put on the blue-ribbon, were not goin’ to keep all the benefit to ourselves. She knew that we understood the meaning of the word ‘enlist’ That we’d think very little o’ the poor-spirited fellow who’d take the Queen’s shillin’ and put on her uniform, and then shirk fightin’ her battles and honouring her flag. So when some of us put on the Lord’s uniform—which, like that of the Austrians, is white—and unfurled His flag, she knew we’d soon be wantin’ to fight His battles against sin—especially against drink; so instead of lookin’ after our welfare alone, she encouraged us to hold out a helpin’ hand to the poorest and most miserable people in Portsmouth, an’ she found us ready to answer to the call.”
“Ah, they was grand times, these,” continued the marine, with kindly enthusiasm, as he observed that his comrades in sorrow were becoming interested, and forgetting for the moment their own sorrows and sufferings. “The Blue-Ribbon move was strong in Portsmouth at the time, and many of the soldiers and sailors joined it. Some time after we had held out a helping hand to the poor civilians, we took it into our heads to invite some of ’em to a grand tea-fight in the big hall, so we asked a lot o’ the poorest who had faithfully kept the pledge through their first teetotal Christmas; and it was a scrimmage, I can tell you. We got together more than forty of ’em, men and women, and there were about three hundred soldiers and sailors, and their wives to wait on ’em an’ keep ’em company!”
“Capital!” exclaimed Miles, who had a sympathetic spirit—especially for the poor.
“Good—good!” said Molloy, nodding his head. “That was the right thing to do, an’ I suppose they enjoyed theirselves?”
“Enjoyed themselves!” exclaimed the marine, with a laugh. “I should just think they did. Trust Miss Robinson for knowin’ how to make poor folk enjoy themselves—and, for the matter of that, rich folk too! How they did stuff, to be sure! Many of ’em, poor things, hadn’t got such a blow-out in all their lives before. You see, they was the very poorest of the poor. You may believe what I say, for I went round myself with one o’ the Institoot ladies to invite ’em, and I do declare to you that I never saw even pigs or dogs in such a state of destitootion—nothin’ whatever to lie on but the bare boards.”
“You don’t say so?” murmured Moses, with deep commiseration, and seemingly oblivious of the fact that he was himself pretty much in similar destitution at that moment.
“Indeed I do. Look here,” continued the marine, becoming more earnest as he went on; “thousands of people don’t know—can’t understand—what misery and want and suffering is going on around ’em. City missionaries and the like tell ’em about it, and write about it, but telling and writin’ don’t make people know some things. They must see, ay, sometimes they must feel, before they can rightly understand.
“One of the rooms we visited,” continued Stevenson, in pathetic tones, “belonged to a poor old couple who had been great drinkers, but had been induced to put on the blue-ribbon. It was a pigeon-hole of a room, narrow, up a dark stair. They had no means of support. The room was empty. Everything had been pawned. The last thing given up was the woman’s shawl to pay the rent, and they were starving.”
“Why didn’t they go to the work’us?” asked Simkin.
“’Cause the workhouse separates man and wife, in defiance of the Divine law—‘Whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.’ They was fond of each other, was that old man and woman, and had lived long together, an’ didn’t want to part till death. So they had managed to stick to the old home, ay, and they had stuck to their colours, for the bit o’ blue was still pinned to the tattered coat o’ the man and the thin gown o’ the woman, (neither coat nor gown would fetch anything at the pawn-shop!) and there was no smell o’ drink in the room. Well, that old couple went to the tea-fight. It was a bitter cold night, but they came all the same, with nothing to cover the woman’s thin old arms.
“The moment they appeared, away went one o’ Miss Robinson’s workers to the room where they keep chests full of clothes sent by charitable folk to the Institoot, an’ you should have seen that old woman’s wrinkled face when the worker returned wi’ the thickest worsted shawl she could lay hold of, an’ put it on her shoulders as tenderly as if the old woman had been her own mother! At the same time they gave a big-coat to the old man.”
“But, I say,” interrupted Simkin, “that Christmas feed an’ shawl an’ coat wouldn’t keep the couple for a twel’month, if they was sent home to starve as before, would it?”
“Of course not,” returned the marine, “but they wasn’t sent off to starve; they was looked after. Ay, an’ the people o’ the whole neighbourhood are now looked after, for Miss Robinson has bought up a grog-shop in Nobbs Lane—one o’ the worst places in Portsmouth—an’ converted it into a temperance coffee-house, wi’ lots of beds to send people to when the Institoot overflows, an’ a soup-kitchen for the destitoot poor, an’ a wash’us for them and the soldiers’ wives, an’, in short, it has changed the whole place; but if I go on like this I’ll send Moses to sleep, for I’ve heard ’im smotherin’ his yawns more than once a’ready!”
“It’s not for want of interest in what you’re sayin’ though, old man,” returned Moses, with a tremendous unsmothered yawn, which of course set all his comrades off, and confirmed them in the belief that it was time to seek repose.
Scarcely a single comment was made on the narrative, as each laid his weary head on his arm or on a folded garment, and stretched himself out on the hard ground, in nearly as destitute a condition as the poor folk about whom they had been hearing; for while their bed was as hard as theirs, and the covering as scant, the meal they had recently consumed was by no means what hungry men would call satisfying.
There is reason to believe, however, that their consideration of the sad lot of “the poor” at home did not render less profound or sweet that night’s repose in the great African wilderness.
Chapter Twenty Four.
Adventures among the Soudanese, and Strange Meeting with the Mahdi.
Day after day, for many days, our captives were thus driven over the burning desert, suffering intensely from heat and thirst and hunger, as well as from fatigue, and treated with more or less cruelty according to the varying moods of their guards.
At last one afternoon they arrived at a city of considerable size, through the streets of which they were driven with unusual harshness by the Arab soldiers, who seemed to take pleasure in thus publicly heaping contempt on Christian captives in the sight of the Mohammedan population.
Their case seemed truly desperate to Miles, as he and his comrades passed through the narrow streets, for no pitying eye, but many a frown, was cast on them by the crowds who stopped to gaze and scoff.
What city they had reached they had no means of finding out, being ignorant of Arabic. Indeed, even though they had been able to converse with their guards, it is probable that these would have refused to hold communication with them.
Turning out of what appeared to be a sort of market-place, they were driven, rather than conducted, to a whitewashed building, into which they entered through a low strong door, studded with large iron-headed nails. As they entered a dark passage, the door was slammed and locked behind them. At first, owing to their sudden entrance out of intensely bright day, they seemed to be in profound darkness, but when they became accustomed to the dim light, they found that they were in the presence of several powerful men, who carried long Eastern-like pistols in their girdles, and curved naked swords in their hands. These stood like statues against the wall of the small room, silently awaiting the orders of one whose dress betokened him of superior rank, and who was engaged in writing with a reed in Persian characters. A tall, very black-skinned negro stood beside this officer.
After a few minutes the latter laid down the reed, rose up, and confronted the prisoners, at the same time addressing some remark to his attendant.
“Who is you, an’ where you come fro?” asked the negro, addressing himself to Miles, whom he seemed intuitively to recognise as the chief of his party.
“We are British soldiers!” said Miles, drawing himself up with an air of dignity that would have done credit to the Emperor of China. You see, at that moment he felt himself to be the spokesman for, and, with his comrades, the representative of, the entire British army, and was put upon his mettle accordingly. “We come from Suakim—”
“Ay, black-face!” broke in Jack Molloy at that moment, “and you may tell him that if he has the pluck to go to Suakim, he’ll see plenty more British soldiers—an’ British seamen too—who’ll give him an’ his friends a hot and hearty welcome wi’ bullet, bayonet, and cutlash whenever he feels inclined.”
“Are you officer?” asked the negro of Miles, and not paying the smallest attention to Molloy’s warlike invitation.
“No, I am not.”
Turning to the armed men, the officer gave them an order which caused them to advance and stand close to the Englishmen—two beside each prisoner—with drawn swords. An extra man took up his position behind Molloy, evidently having regard to his superior size! Then two men, who looked like jailers, advanced to Stevenson, cut the cords that bound his arms, and proceeded to put iron fetters on his wrists.
“Comrades,” said Molloy, in a low voice, when he perceived that his turn was coming, “shall we make a burst for it—kill them all, get out into street, cut and slash through the town, and make a grand run for it—or die like men?”
“Die like fools!” growled Simkin, as he suffered his hands to be manacled.
“No, no, Jack,” said Armstrong; “don’t be rash. Let’s bide our time. There’s no sayin’ what’ll turn up.”
“Well, well,” sighed Molloy, resigning himself to his fate, “there’s only one thing now that’s sartin sure to turn up, an’ that is the sod that’ll cover our graves.”
“You’re not sure even of that, man,” said Moses Pyne, who was beginning to give way to despair, “for may-hap they’ll only dig a hole in the sand, an’ shove us in.”
“More likely to leave the dogs an’ vultures to clear us out o’ the way,” said Simkin, whose powers of hope were being tested almost beyond endurance.
While the prisoners indulged in these gloomy anticipations, the operation of fixing their irons was finished, after which they were taken across an inner court which was open to the sky. At the other side of this they came to another heavy iron-studded door, which, when opened, disclosed a flight of steps descending into profound darkness.
“Go in!” said the negro, who had accompanied them.
Molloy, who was first, hesitated, and the tremendous flush on his face, and frown on his shaggy brows, seemed to indicate that even yet he meditated attempting his favourite “burst”! But Stevenson, pushing past him, at once descended, saying, as he went, “Don’t be foolish, Jack; we must learn to submit.”
There were only three steps, and at the bottom a room about fifteen feet square, to enlighten which there was a small hole high up in one of the walls. It did little more, however, than render darkness visible.
“God help us!” exclaimed Miles, with a sensation of sinking at the heart which he had never felt before.
And little wonder, for, as their eyes became accustomed to the dim light, it was seen that the walls were blank, with nothing on them to relieve the eye save the little hole or window just mentioned; that the floor was of hard earth, and that there was not a scrap of furniture in the room—not even a stool, or a bundle of straw on which to lie down.
“‘I will trust, and not be afraid,’” said Stevenson, in a low voice.
“Who will you trust?” asked Simkin, who was not aware that his comrade had quoted Scripture.
“I will trust God,” answered the marine.
“I wouldn’t give much for your trust, then,” returned Simkin bitterly, as well as contemptuously, for he had given way to despair. “You Blue Lights and Christians think yourselves so much better than everybody else, because you make so much talk about prayin’ an’ singin’, an’ doin’ your duty, an’ servin’ God, an’ submitting. It’s all hypocrisy.”
“Don’t you believe that Sergeant Hardy is a good soldier?” asked Stevenson.
“Of course I do,” replied Simkin, in some surprise at the question.
“An’ he doesn’t think much of himself, does he?” continued the marine.
“Certainly not. He’s one o’ the kindest an’ humblest men in the regiment, as I have good reason to know.”
“Yet he frequently talks to us of attendin’ to our duty, an’ doin’ credit to the British Flag, an’ faithfully serving the Queen. If this is praiseworthy in the sergeant, why should the talk of duty an’ service an’ honour to God be hypocrisy in the Christian? Does it not seem strange that we Blue Lights—who have discovered ourselves to be much worse than we thought ourselves, an’ gladly accept Jesus as our Saviour from sin—should be charged with thinkin’ ourselves ‘better than other people’!”
“Come now,” cried Jack Molloy, seating himself on the floor, and leaning his back against the wall; “it do seem to me, as you putt it, Stevenson, that the charge ought to be all the other way; for we, who make no purfession of religion at all, thinks ourselves so far righteous that we’ve got no need of a Saviour. Suppose, now, as we’ve got to as low a state o’ the dumps as men can well come to, we all sits down in a row an’ have a palaver about this matter—Parson Stevenson bein’ the chief spokesman.”
They all readily agreed to this proposal. Indeed, in the circumstances, any proposal that offered the faintest hope of diverting their minds from present trouble would have been welcome to them at that moment. The marine was nothing loath to fall in with the fancy of his irrepressible comrade, but we do not propose to follow them in the talk that ensued. We will rather turn at once to those events which affected more immediately the fortunes of the captives.
On the morning after their arrival in the city there was assembled in the principal square a considerable concourse of Soudan warriors. They stood chatting together in various groups in front of a public building, as if awaiting some chief or great man, whose richly caparisoned steed stood in front of the main entrance, with its out-runner standing before it.
This runner was a splendid specimen of physical manhood. He was as black as coal, as graceful as Apollo, and apparently as powerful as Hercules,—if one might judge from the great muscles which stood out prominently on all his limbs, he wore but little clothing—merely a pair of short Arab drawers of white cotton, a red fez on his head, and a small tippet on his shoulders. Unlike negroes in general, his features were cast in a mould which one is more accustomed to see in the Caucasian race of mankind—the nose being straight, the lips comparatively thin, and the face oval, while his bearing was that of a man accustomed to command.
The appearance of a few soldiers traversing the square drew the eyes of all in their direction, and caused a brief pause in the hum of conversation. Our friends, the captives, were in the midst of these soldiers, and beside them marched the negro interpreter whom they had first met with in the prison.
At the door of the public building the soldiers drew up and allowed the captives to pass in, guarded by two officers and the interpreter. Inside they found a number of military men and dignitaries grouped around, conversing with a stern man of strongly marked features. This man—towards whom all of them showed great deference—was engaged when the captives entered; they were therefore obliged to stand aside for a few minutes.
“Who is he?” asked Molloy of the negro interpreter.
“Our great leader,” said the negro, “the Mahdi.”
“What! the scoundrel that’s bin the cause o’ all this kick-up?” asked Jack Molloy, in surprise.
The interpreter did not quite understand the seaman’s peculiar language, but he seemed to have some idea of the drift of it, for he turned up his up-turned nose in scorn and made no reply.
In a few minutes an officer led the captives before the Mahdi, who regarded them with a dark frown, directing his attention particularly to Jack Molloy, as being the most conspicuous member of the party, perhaps, also, because Molloy looked at him with an air and expression of stern defiance.
Selecting him as a spokesman for the others, the Mahdi, using the negro as an interpreter, put him through the following examination:—
“Where do you come from?” he asked, sternly.
“From Suakim,” answered Molloy, quite as sternly.
“What brought you here?”
“Your dirty-faced baboons!”
It is probable that the negro used some discretion in translating this reply, for the chief did not seem at all offended, but with the same manner and tone continued—
“Do you know the number of men in Suakim?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me—how many?”
To this Molloy answered slowly, “Quite enough—if you had only the pluck to come out into the open an’ fight like men—to give you such a lickin’ that there wouldn’t be a baboon o’ you left in the whole Soudan!”
Again it is probable that the interpreter did not give this speech verbatim, for while he was delivering it the Mahdi was scanning the features of the group of prisoners with a calm but keen eye.
Making a sign to one of his attendants to lead Molloy to one side, he said a few words to another, who thereupon placed Miles in front of his master.
“Are you an officer?” was the first question put.
“No,” answered our hero, with quiet dignity, but without the slightest tinge of defiance either in tone or look.
“Will you tell me how many men you have in Suakim?”
“No.”
“Dare you refuse?”
“Yes; it is against the principles of a British soldier to give information to an enemy.”
“That’s right, John Miles,” said Molloy, in an encouraging tone; “give it ’im hot! They can only kill us once, an’—”
“Silence!” hissed the Mahdi between his teeth.
“Silence!” echoed the interpreter.
“All right, you nigger! Tell the baboon to go on. I won’t run foul of him again; he ain’t worth it.”
This was said with free-and-easy contempt.
“Do you not know,” resumed the Mahdi, turning again to Miles with a fierce expression, “that I have power to take your life?”
“You have no power at all beyond what God gives to you,” said Miles quietly.
Even the angry Mahdi was impressed with the obvious truth of this statement, but his anger was not much allayed by it.
“Know you not,” he continued, “that I have the power to torture you to death?”
Our hero did not at once reply. He felt that a grand crisis in his life had arrived, that he stood there before an assemblage of “unbelievers,” and that, to some extent, the credit of his countrymen for courage, fidelity, and Christianity was placed in his hands.
“Mahdi,” he said, impressively, as he drew himself up, “you have indeed the power to torture and kill me, but you have not the power to open my lips, or cause me to bring dishonour on my country!”
“Brayvo, Johnny! Pitch into him!” cried the delighted Molloy.
“Fool!” exclaimed the Mahdi, whose ire was rekindled as much by the seaman’s uncomprehended comment as by our hero’s fearless look and tone, “you cannot bring dishonour on a country which is already dishonoured. What dishonour can exceed that of being leagued with the oppressor against the oppressed? Go! You shall be taught to sympathise with the oppressed by suffering oppression!”
He waved his hand, and, quickly leaving the court, walked towards his horse, where the fine-looking negro runner stood and held his stirrup, while he prepared to mount. Instead of mounting, however, he stood for a few seconds looking thoughtfully at the ground. Then he spoke a few words to the runner, who bowed his head slightly as his master mounted and rode away.
Grasping a small lance and flag, which seemed to be the emblems of his office, he ran off at full speed in front of the horse to clear the way for his master.
At the entrance to the building an official of some sort took hold of Miles’s arm and led him away. He glanced back and observed that two armed men followed. At the same time he saw Molloy’s head towering above the surrounding crowd, as he and his comrades were led away in another direction. That was the last he saw of some at least, of his friends for a considerable time.
Poor Miles was too much distressed at this sudden and unexpected separation to take much note of the things around him. He was brought back to a somewhat anxious consideration of his own affairs by being halted at the gate of a building which was more imposing, both in size and appearance, than the houses around it. Entering at the bidding of his conductors, he found himself in an open court, and heard the heavy door closed and bolted behind him.
Thereafter he was conducted to a small chamber, which, although extremely simple, and almost devoid of furniture, was both cleaner and lighter than that in which he and his comrades had been at first immured. He observed, however, with a feeling of despondency, that it was lighted only by small square holes in the roof, and that the door was very substantial!
Here his conductor left him without saying a word and bolted the door. As he listened to the retreating steps of his jailer echoing on the marble pavement of the court, a feeling of profound dejection fell upon our hero’s spirit, and he experienced an almost irresistible tendency to give way to unmanly tears. Shame, however, came to his aid and enabled him to restrain them.
In one corner of the little room there was a piece of thick matting. Sitting down on it with his back against the wall, the poor youth laid his face in his hands and began to think and to pray. But the prayer was not audible; and who can describe the wide range of thought—the grief, the anxiety for comrades as well as for himself, the remorse, the intense longing to recall the past, the wish that he might awake and find that it was only a wild dream, and, above all, the bitter—almost vengeful—self-condemnation!
He was aroused from this condition by the entrance of a slave bearing a round wooden tray, on which were a bowl of food and a jug of water.
Placing these before him, the slave retired without speaking, though he bestowed a glance of curiosity on the “white infidel dog,” before closing the door.
Appetite had ever been a staunch friend to Miles Milton. It did not fail him now. Soldier-life has usually the effect of making its devotees acutely careful to take advantage of all opportunities! He set to work on the bowlful of food with a will, and was not solicitous to ascertain what it consisted of until it was safely washed down with a draught from the jug. Being then too late to enter on an inquiry as to its nature, he contented himself with a pleasing recollection that the main body of the compost was rice, one of the constituents oil, and that the whole was by no means bad. He also wished that there had been more of it, and then resumed his previous—and only possible—amusement of meditation.
Thinking, like fighting, is better done on a full stomach! He had gradually thought himself into a more hopeful state of mind, when he was again interrupted by the entrance of visitors—two armed men, and the magnificent negro runner whom he had observed holding the Mahdi’s horse. One of the armed men carried a small bundle, which he deposited on the ground, and then stood beside his companion. Both stood like sentinels with drawn swords, ready, apparently, to obey the commands of the runner.
Advancing to the captive, the latter, producing a key, unlocked and removed his manacles. These he handed to one of the men, and, turning again to Miles, said, to his great surprise, in English—
“Undress, and put on de t’ings in bundle.”
We may here observe that up to this time Miles and his comrades in adversity had worn, day and night, the garments in which they had been captured. Our hero was not sorry, therefore, at the prospect of a change. Untying the bundle to see what substitute was given for his uniform, he found that it contained only a pair of loose cotton drawers and a red fez.
“Is this all?” he asked, in surprise.
“All,” answered the negro.
“And what if I refuse to undress?” asked Miles.
“Your clo’es will be tore off your back and you be bastinado!”
This was said so calmly, and the three grave, powerful men seemed so thoroughly capable of performing the deed, that our hero wisely submitted to the inevitable and took off his uniform, which one of the guards gathered up piece by piece as it was removed. Then he pulled on the drawers, which covered him from the waist to a little below the knees. When he had put on the red fez he found himself clothed in exactly the same costume as the runner, with the exception of a small green tippet which barely covered the top of his shoulders, and seemed to be worn rather as an ornament than a piece of clothing, though perhaps it formed a slight protection from the sun.
In this cool costume they left him, carrying away his uniform, as if more thoroughly to impress on him what uncommonly cool things they were capable of doing in the hot regions of the Soudan!