BARUNG
At the sound of this soft voice (the extreme softness of Maqueda’s
voice was always one of her greatest charms), Orme opened his eyes and
stared at her.
“Very queer dream,” I heard him mutter. “Must be something in
the Mohammedan business after all. Extremely beautiful woman, and that
gold thing looks well on her dark hair.”
“What does the lord your companion say?” asked Maqueda of me.
Having first explained that he was suffering from shock, I translated
word for word, whereon Maqueda blushed to her lovely violet eyes and
let fall her veil in a great hurry. In the confusion which ensued, I
heard Quick saying to his master:
“No, no, sir; this one ain’t no houri. She’s a flesh and
blood queen, and the pleasantest to look at I ever clapped eyes on,
though a benighted African Jew. Wake up, Captain, wake up; you are out
of that hell-fire now. It’s got the Fung, not you.”
The word Fung seemed to rouse Orme.
“Yes,” he said; “I understand. The vapour of the stuff
poisoned me, but it is passing now. Adams, ask that lady how many men
she’s got with her. What does she say? About five hundred? Well, then,
let her attack Harmac at once. The outer and inner gates are down; the
Fung think they have raised the devil and will run. She can inflict a
defeat on them from which they will not recover for years, only it must
be done at once, before they get their nerve again, for, after all,
they are more frightened than hurt.”
Maqueda listened to this advice intently.
“It is to my liking; it is very good,” she said in her quaint
archaic Arabic when I had finished translating. “But I must consult my
Council. Where is my uncle, the prince Joshua?”
“Here, Lady,” answered a voice from the press behind, out of which
presently emerged, mounted on a white horse, a stout man, well advanced
in middle age, with a swarthy complexion and remarkably round,
prominent eyes. He was clad in the usual Eastern robes, richly worked,
over which he wore a shirt of chain-mail, and on his head a helmet,
with mail flaps, an attire that gave the general effect of an obese
Crusader of the early Norman period without his cross.
“Is that Joshua?” said Orme, who was wandering a little again.
“Rummy-looking cock, isn’t he? Sergeant, tell Joshua that the walls
of Jericho are down, so there’ll be no need to blow his own trumpet.
I’m sure from the look of him that he’s a perfect devil with a
trumpet.”
“What does your companion say?” asked Maqueda again.
I translated the middle part of Orme’s remarks, but neither the
commencement nor the end, but even these amused her very much, for she
burst out laughing, and said, pointing to Harmac, over which still hung
a cloud of dust:
“Yes, yes, Joshua, my uncle, the walls of Jericho are down, and the
question is, will you not take your opportunity? So in an hour or two we
shall be dead, or if God goes with us, perhaps free from the menace of
the Fung for years.”
The prince Joshua stared at her with his great, prominent eyes, then
answered in a thick, gobbling voice:
“Are you mad, Child of Kings? Of us Abati here there are but five
hundred men, and of the Fung yonder tens of thousands. If we attacked,
they would eat us up. Can five hundred men stand against tens of
thousands?”
“It seems that three stood against them this morning, and worked some
damage, my uncle, but it is true those three are of a different race
from the Abati,” she added with bitter sarcasm. Then she turned to
those behind her and cried: “Who of my captains and Council will
accompany me, if I who am but a woman dare to advance on Harmac?”
Now here and there a voice cried, “I will,” or some gorgeously
dressed person stepped forward in a hesitating way, and that was all.
“You see, men of the West!” said Maqueda after a little pause,
addressing us three. “I thank you for the great deeds that you have
done and for your counsel. But I cannot take it because my people are
not—warlike,” and she covered her face with her hands.
Now there arose a great tumult among her followers, who all began to
talk at once. Joshua in particular drew a large sword and waved it,
shouting out a recital of the desperate actions of his youth and the
names of Fung chieftains whom he alleged he had killed in single
combat.
“Told you that fat cur was a first-class trumpeter,” said Orme
languidly, while the Sergeant ejaculated in tones of deep disgust:
“Good Lord! what a set. Why, Doctor, they ain’t fit to savage a
referee in a London football ground. Pharaoh there in his basket (where
he was barking loudly) would make the whole lot run, and if he was
out—oh my! Now, then, you porpoise”—this he addressed to Joshua,
who was flourishing his sword unpleasantly near—“put your
pasteboard up, won’t you, or I’ll knock your fat head off,”
whereon the Prince, who, if he did not understand Quick’s words, at
any rate caught their meaning wonderfully well, did as he was told, and
fell back.
Just then, indeed, there was a general movement up the pass, in the wide
mouth of which all this scene took place, for suddenly three Fung
chieftains appeared galloping toward us, one of whom was veiled with a
napkin in which were cut eyeholes. So universal was this retreat, in
fact, that we three on our camels, and the Child of Kings on her
beautiful mare, found ourselves left alone.
“An embassy,” said Maqueda, scanning the advancing horsemen, who
carried with them a white flag tied to the blade of a spear.
“Physician, will you and your friends come with me and speak to these
messengers?” And without even waiting for an answer, she rode forward
fifty yards or so on to the plain, and there reined up and halted till
we could bring our camels round and join her. As we did so, the three
Fung, splendid-looking, black-faced fellows, arrived at a furious
gallop, their lances pointed at us.
“Stand still, friends,” said Maqueda; “they mean no
harm.”
As the words passed her lips, the Fung pulled the horses to their
haunches, Arab-fashion, lifted spears and saluted. Then their
leader—not the veiled man, but another—spoke in a dialect that I,
who had spent so many years among the savages of the desert, understood
well enough, especially as the base of it was Arabic.
“O, Walda Nagasta, Daughter of Solomon,” he said, “we are the
tongues of our Sultan Barung, Son of Barung for a hundred generations,
and we speak his words to the brave white men who are your guests. Thus
says Barung. Like the Fat One whom I have already captured, you white
men are heroes. Three of you alone, you held the gate against my army.
With the weapons of the white man you killed us from afar, here one and
there one. Then, at last, with a great magic of thunder and lightning
and earthquake, you sent us by scores into the bosom of our god, and
shook down our walls about our ears and out of that hell you escaped
yourselves.
“Now, O white men, this is the offer of Barung to you: Leave the curs
of the Abati, the baboons who gibber and deck themselves out, the
rock-rabbits who seek safety in the cliffs, and come to him. He will
give you not only life, but all your heart’s desire—lands and wives
and horses; great shall you be in his councils and happy shall you
live. Moreover, for your sakes he will try to spare your brother, the
Fat One, whose eyes look out of black windows, who blows fire from his
mouth, and reviles his enemies as never man did before. Yes, although
the priests have doomed him to sacrifice at the next feast of Harmac,
he will try to spare him, which, perhaps, he can do by making him, like
the Singer of Egypt, also a priest of Harmac, and thus dedicate forever
to the god with whom, indeed, he says he had been familiar for
thousands of years. This is our message, O white men.”
Now, when I had translated the substance of this oration to Orme and
Quick, for, as I saw by the quiver that passed through her at the Fung
insults upon her tribe, Maqueda understood it, their tongues not
differing greatly, Orme who, for the time at any rate, was almost
himself again, said:
“Tell these fellows to say to their Sultan that he is a good old boy,
and that we thank him very much; also that we are sorry to have been
obliged to kill so many of them in a way that he must have thought
unsportsmanlike, but we had to do it, as we are sure he will
understand, in order to save our skins. Tell him also that, speaking
personally, having sampled the Abati yonder and on our journey, I
should like to accept his invitation. But although, as yet, we have
found no men among them, only, as he says, baboons, rock-rabbits, and
boasters without a fight in them, we have”—and here he bowed his
bleeding head to Maqueda—“found a woman with a great heart. Of her
salt we have eaten, or are about to eat; to serve her we have come from
far upon her camels, and, unless she should be pleased to accompany us,
we cannot desert her.”
All of this I rendered faithfully, while every one, and especially
Maqueda, listened with much attention. When they had considered our
words, the spokesman of the messengers replied to the effect that the
motives of our decision were of a nature that commanded their entire
respect and sympathy, especially as their people quite concurred in our
estimate of the character of the Abati ruler, Child of Kings. This
being so, they would amend their proposition, knowing the mind of their
Sultan, and having, indeed, plenipotentiary powers.
“Lady of Mur,” he went on, addressing Maqueda directly, “fair
daughter of the great god Harmac and a mortal queen, what we have
offered to the white lords, your guests, we offer to you also. Barung,
our Sultan, shall make you his head wife; or, if that does not please
you, you shall wed whom you will”—and, perhaps by accident, the
envoy’s roving eyes rested for a moment upon Oliver Orme.
“Leave, then, your rock-rabbits, who dare not quit their cliffs when
but three messengers wait without with sticks,” and he glanced at the
spear in his hand, “and come to dwell among men. Listen, high Lady;
we know your case. You do your best in a hopeless task. Had it not been
for you and your courage, Mur would have been ours three years ago, and
it was ours before your tribe wandered thither. But while you can find
but a hundred brave warriors to help you, you think the place
impregnable, and you have perhaps that number, though we know they are
not here; they guard the gates above. Yes, with a few of your
Mountaineers whose hearts are as those of their forefathers were, so
far as you have defied all the power of the Fung, and when you saw that
the end drew near, using your woman’s wit, you sent for the white men
to come with their magic, promising to pay them with the gold which you
have in such plenty in the tombs of our old kings and in the rocks of
the mountains.”
“Who told you that, O Tongue of Barung?” asked Maqueda in a low
voice, speaking for the first time. “The man of the West whom you took
prisoner—he whom you call Fat One?”
“No, no, O Walda Nagasta, the lord Black Windows has told us nothing
as yet, except sundry things about the history of our god, with whom,
as we said, he seems to be familiar, and to whom, therefore, we vowed
him at once. But there are others who tell us things, for in times of
truce our peoples trade together a little, and cowards are often spies.
For instance, we knew that these white men were coming last night,
though it is true that we did not know of their fire magic, for, had we
done so, we should not have let the camels slip through, since there
may be more of it on them——”
“For your comfort, learn that there is—much more,” I
interrupted.
“Ah!” replied the Tongue, shaking his head sadly, “and yet we
suffered Cat, whom you call Shadrach, to make off with that of your fat
brother; yes, and even gave it to him after his own beast had been lamed
by accident. Well, it is our bad luck, and without doubt Harmac is
angry with us to-day. But your answer, O Walda Nagasta, your answer, O
Rose of Mur?”
“What can it be, O Voices of Barung the Sultan?” replied Maqueda.
“You know that by my blood and by my oath of office I am sworn to
protect Mur to the last.”
“And so you shall,” pleaded the Tongue, “for when we have
cleaned it of baboons and rock-rabbits, which, if you were among us, we
soon should do, and thus fulfilled our oath to regain our ancient
secret City of the Rocks, we will set you there once more as its Lady,
under Barung, and give you a multitude of subjects of whom you may be
proud.”
“It may not be, O Tongue, for they would be worshippers of Harmac, and
between Jehovah, whom I serve, and Harmac there is war,” she answered
with spirit.
“Yes, sweet-smelling Bud of the Rose, there is war, and let it be
admitted that the first battle has gone against Harmac, thanks to the
magic of the white men. Yet yonder he sits in his glory as the spirits,
his servants, fashioned him in the beginning,” and he pointed with
his spear toward the valley of the idol. “You know our
prophecy—that until Harmac rises from his seat and flies away, for
where he goes, the Fung must follow—till then, I say, we shall hold
the plains and the city of his name—that is, for ever.”
“For ever is a long word, O Mouth of Barung.” Then she paused a
little, and added slowly, “Did not certain of the gates of Harmac fly
far this morning? Now what if your god should follow his gates and
those worshippers who went with them, and be seen no more? Or what if
the earth should open and swallow him, so that he goes down to hell,
whither you cannot follow? Or what if the mountains should fall
together and bury him from your sight eternally. Or what if the
lightnings should leap out and shatter him to dust?”
At these ominous words the envoys shivered, and it seemed to me that
their faces for a moment turned grey.
“Then, O Child of Kings,” answered the spokesman solemnly,
“the Fung will acknowledge that your god is greater than our god, and
that our glory is departed.”
Thus he spoke and was silent, turning his eyes toward the third
messenger, he who wore a cloth or napkin upon his head that was pierced
with eyeholes and hung down to the breast. With a quick motion, the man
dragged off this veil and threw it to the ground, revealing a very
noble countenance, not black like that of his followers, but
copper-coloured. He was about fifty years of age, with deep-set
flashing eyes, hooked nose, and a flowing, grizzled beard. The collar
of gold about his neck showed that his rank was high, but when we
noticed a second ornament of gold, also upon his brow, we knew that it
must be supreme. For this ornament was nothing less than the symbol of
royalty, once worn by the ancient Pharaohs of Egypt, the double snakes
of the _uraeus_ bending forward as though to strike, which, as we had
seen, rose also from the brow of the lion-headed sphinx of Harmac.
As he uncovered, his two companions leapt to the ground and prostrated
themselves before him, crying, “Barung! Barung!” while all three of
us Englishmen saluted, involuntarily, I think, and even the Child of
Kings bowed.
The Sultan acknowledged our greetings by raising his spear. Then he
spoke in a grave measured voice:
“O Walda Nagasta, and you, white men, sons of great fathers, I have
listened to the talk between you and my servants; I confirm their words
and I add to them. I am sorry that my generals tried to kill you last
night. I was making prayer to my god, or it should not have happened. I
have been well repaid for that deed, since an army should not make war
upon four men, even though by their secret power four men can defeat an
army. I beseech you, and you also, Rose of Mur, to accept my proffered
friendship, since otherwise, ere long, you will soon be dead, and your
wisdom will perish with you for I am weary of this little war against a
handful whom we despise.
“O Walda Nagasta, you have breathed threats against the Majesty of
Harmac, but he is too strong for you, nor may the might that can turn a
few bricks to dust and shatter the bones of men prevail against him who
is shaped from the heart of a mountain and holds the spirit of
eternity. So at least I think: but even if it is decreed otherwise,
what will that avail you? If it should please the god to leave us
because of your arts, the Fung will still remain to avenge him ere they
follow. Then I swear to you by my majesty and by the bones of my
ancestors who sit in the caves of Mur, that I will spare but one of the
Abati Jews, yourself, O Child of Kings, because of your great heart,
and the three white men, your guests, should they survive the battle,
because of their courage and their wisdom. As for their brother, Black
Windows, whom I have captured, he must be sacrificed, since I have
sworn it, unless you yield, when I will plead for his life to the god,
with what result I cannot tell. Yield, then, and I will not even slay
the Abati; they shall live on and serve the Fung as slaves and minister
to the glory of Harmac.”
“It may not be, it may not be!” Maqueda answered, striking the
pommel of her saddle with her small hand. “Shall Jehovah whom Solomon,
my father, worshipped, Jehovah of all the generations, do homage to an
idol shaped by the hands He made? My people are worn out; they have
forgot their faith and gone astray, as did Israel in the desert. I know
it. It may even happen that the time has come for them to perish, who
are no longer warriors, as of old. Well, if so, let them die free, and
not as slaves. At least I, in whom their best blood runs, do not seek
your mercy, O Barung. I’ll be no plaything in your house, who, at the
worst, can always die, having done my duty to my God and those who bred
me. Thus I answer you as the Child of many Kings. Yet as a woman,”
she added in a gentler voice, “I thank you for your courtesy. When I
am slain, Barung, if I am fated to be slain, think kindly of me, as one
who did her best against mighty odds,” and her voice broke.
“That I shall always do,” he answered gravely. “Is it
ended?”
“Not quite,” she answered. “These Western lords, I give them
to you; I absolve them from their promise. Why should they perish in a
lost cause? If they take their wisdom to you to use against me, you
have vowed them their lives, and, perhaps, that of their brother, your
captive. There is a slave of yours also—you spoke of him, or your
servant did—Singer of Egypt is his name. One of them knew him as a
child; perchance you will not refuse him to that man.”
She paused, but Barung made no answer.
“Go, my friends,” she went on, turning toward us. “I thank
you for your long journey on my behalf and the blow you have struck for
me, and in payment I will send you a gift of gold; the Sultan will see
it safe into your hands. I thank you. I wish I could have known more of
you, but mayhap we shall meet again in war. Farewell.”
She ceased, and I could see that she was watching us intently through
her thin veil. The Sultan also watched us, stroking his long beard, a
look of speculation in his eyes, for evidently this play interested him
and he wondered how it would end.
“This won’t do,” said Orme, when he understood the thing.
“Higgs would never forgive us if we ate dirt just on the off-chance of
saving him from sacrifice. He’s too straight-minded on big things.
But, of course, Doctor,” he added jerkily, “you have interests of
your own and must decide for yourself. I think I can speak for the
Sergeant.”
“I have decided,” I answered. “I hope that my son would never
forgive me either; but if it is otherwise, why, so it must be. Also
Barung has made no promises about him.”
“Tell him, then,” said Orme. “My head aches infernally, and I
want to go to bed, above ground or under it.”
So I told him, although, to speak the truth, I felt like a man with a
knife in his heart, for it was bitter to come so near to the desire of
years, to the love of life, and then to lose all hope just because of
duty to the head woman of a pack of effete curs to whom one had chanced
to make a promise in order to gain this very end. If we could have
surrendered with honour, at least I should have seen my son, whom now I
might never see again.
One thing, however, I added on the spur of the moment—namely, a
request that the Sultan would tell the Professor every word that had
passed, in order that whatever happened to him he might know the exact
situation.
“My Harmac,” said Barung when he had heard, “how disappointed
should I have been with you if you had answered otherwise when a woman
showed you the way. I have heard of you English before—Arabs and
traders brought me tales of you. For instance, there was one who died
defending a city against a worshipper of the Prophet who called himself
a prophet, down yonder at Khartoum on the Nile—a great death, they
told me, a great death, which your people avenged afterwards.
“Well I did not quite believe the story, and I wished to judge of it
by you. I have judged, white lords, I have judged, and I am sure that
your fat brother, Black Windows, will be proud of you even in the
lion’s jaws. Fear not; he shall hear every word. The Singer of Egypt,
who, it appears, can talk his tongue, shall tell the tale to him, and
make a song of it to be sung over your honourable graves. And now
farewell; may it be my lot to cross swords with one of you before all
is done. That shall not be yet, for you need rest, especially yonder
tall son of a god who is wounded,” and he pointed to Orme. “Child
of Kings with a heart of kings, permit me to kiss your hand and to lead
you back to your people, that I would were more worthy of you. Ah! yes,
I would that _we_ were your people.”
Maqueda stretched out her hand, and, taking it, the Sultan barely
touched her fingers with his lips. Then, still holding them, he rode
with her toward the pass.
As we approached its mouth, where the Abati were crowded together,
watching our conference, I heard them murmur, “The Sultan, the Sultan
himself!” and saw the prince Joshua mutter some eager words to the
officers about him.
“Look out, Doctor,” said Quick into my ear. “Unless I’m
mistook, that porpoise is going to play some game.”
Hardly were the words out of his mouth when, uttering the most valiant
shouts and with swords drawn, Joshua and a body of his companions
galloped up and surrounded our little group.
“Now yield, Barung,” bellowed Joshua; “yield or die!”
The Sultan stared at him in astonishment, then answered:
“If I had any weapon (he had thrown down his lance when he took
Maqueda by the hand), certainly one of us should die, O Hog in man’s
clothes.”
Then he turned to Maqueda and added, “Child of Kings, I knew these
people of yours to be cowardly and treacherous, but is it thus that you
suffer them to deal with envoys under a flag of peace?”
“Not so, not so,” she cried. “My uncle Joshua, you disgrace
me; you make our people a shame, a hissing, and a reproach. Stand back;
let the Sultan of the Fung go free.”
But they would not; the prize was too great to be readily disgorged.
We looked at each other. “Not at all the game,” said Orme.
“If they collar him, we shall be tarred with their extremely dirty
brush. Shove your camel in front, Sergeant, and if that beggar Joshua
tries any tricks, put a bullet through him.”
Quick did not need to be told twice. Banging his dromedary’s ribs with
the butt end of his rifle, he drove it straight on to Joshua, shouting:
“Out of the light, porpoise!” with the result that the
Prince’s horse took fright, and reared up so high that its rider slid
off over its tail to find himself seated on the ground, a sorry
spectacle in his gorgeous robes and armour.
Taking advantage of the confusion which ensued, we surrounded the Sultan
and escorted him out of the throng back to his two companions, who,
seeing that there was something amiss, were galloping toward us.
“I am your debtor,” said Barung, “but, O White Men, make me
more so. Return, I pray you, to that hog in armour, and say that Barung,
Sultan of the Fung, understands from his conduct that he desires to
challenge him to single combat, and that, seeing he is fully armed, the
Sultan, although he wears no mail, awaits him here and now.”
So I went at once with the message. But Joshua was far too clever to be
drawn into any such dangerous adventure.
Nothing, he said, would have given him greater joy than to hack the head
from the shoulders of this dog of a Gentile sheik. But, unhappily,
owing to the conduct of one of us foreigners, he had been thrown from
his horse, and hurt his back, so that he could scarcely stand, much
less fight a duel.
So I returned with my answer, whereat Barung smiled and said nothing.
Only, taking from his neck a gold chain which he wore, he proffered it
to Quick, who, as he said, had induced the prince Joshua to show his
horsemanship if not his courage. Then he bowed to us, one by one, and
before the Abati could make up their mind whether to follow him or not,
galloped off swiftly with his companions toward Harmac.
Such was our introduction to Barung, Sultan of the Fung, a barbarian
with many good points, among them courage, generosity, and appreciation
of those qualities even in a foe, characteristics that may have been
intensified by the blood of his mother, who, I am told, was an Arab of
high lineage captured by the Fung in war and given as a wife to the
father of Barung.