+By Victor Forbin.+
A vivacious account by a French journalist of his introduction to a
curious sport of which practically nothing is known in this country.
For a long time a hotbed of patriotic Anglophobia, St. Malo, the
ancient city whose proud boast it is that it has never been conquered,
has been of recent years quietly annexed, so to speak, by its former
foe, and has become a popular resort with English tourists, so that
the poorest of its shops is proud to display on its front windows the
welcoming motto, "English spoken."
The Malouins themselves are the boldest sailors of France; it is a
saying among them that "they have the love of the sea in their blood."
The sons and grandsons of daring privateers, they pass nearly their
whole lives at sea, many of them going every year to the Grand Banks of
Newfoundland for the cod-fishing season.
Even the well-to-do classes, gentry or bourgeoisie, are fond of
maritime pastimes such as fishing and yachting. Their favourite
diversion, however, is dolphin-hunting, a sport which the authorities
encourage by every means in their power, since dolphins and porpoises
are causing terrible havoc among the schools of herring and sardines on
the French coast, thus destroying the livelihood of the fisher-folk.
[Illustration: "DELPHINUS DELPHIS," THE LARGEST SPECIES OF DOLPHIN
FOUND OFF THE BRITTANY COAST--IT WEIGHS FROM THREE TO FOUR HUNDRED
POUNDS, AND MAY REACH NINE FEET IN LENGTH.
_From a Photograph._]
During a recent stay in the suburbs of St. Malo, my host insisted upon
introducing me to the enchantment of a sport of whose very existence I
had hitherto been ignorant.
"You cannot possibly return to Paris until you have killed your
porpoise, can you?" he asked, insinuatingly.
"I am here for rest, not for butchery," I replied, indolently.
"But just think of the story you will have to tell," he continued. "A
dolphin hunt! It is old to us Malouins, but what a novelty for you, a
newspaper man, a Parisian!"
"A novelty, to be sure," I returned. "But what about sunstroke? I tell
you, my dear Desmond, in this terrific heat the shade of your apple
trees is good enough for me. Bother your dolphin-hunting!"
That is what I told him, and at the moment I meant it; yet I must
confess that I allowed myself to be conquered in the end by a monetary
argument.
"But you're losing money," urged my host. "You forget that a certain
official is ready to pay you a five-franc piece for each dolphin's head
you may bring him!"
Five francs! I rose to the bait. What glory for a writer to be able
to boast that he has earned money with his gun! How I could crow over
my fellow-scribes! So, tempted by glorious visions of many five-franc
pieces, I weakly surrendered.
It is quite likely that dreams of sport caused me to sleep more soundly
than I ought to have done, for when my friend's shouts awoke me at
last I unjustly scolded my alarm-clock, which had done its duty.
Fortunately, everything was ready, down to the _café-au-lait_ and
_petit pain_ that the maid was bringing in. A few minutes later I
hastily jumped aboard the yacht _Christiane_, where Desmond and his
_mousse_ (cabin-boy), Jean-Marie Le Floch, were waiting for me,
meanwhile endeavouring to ascertain from some old salts in which
direction and at about what distance out we should be likely to meet
with a school of _marsouins_.
"_Marsouins?_" ejaculated one old fisherman, between puffs at his pipe.
"The confounded vermin are to be met with everywhere and nowhere."
Never expect, by the way, to receive precise information from a Breton
fisherman. But never mind; we shall reach our objective some time or
other with the help of the breeze and the good-will of the dolphins!
Presently the yacht was ploughing her way gracefully through the waves,
and for the time being we had nothing else to do but search the horizon
and talk about our intended victims. Meanwhile I learnt from my friend
many interesting details about dolphins and their ways.
It appears that several species of dolphins are to be met with near
the shores of Brittany. The largest is known to science as _Delphinus
delphis_, and differs from other varieties by its long jaws--very like
the beak of a big bird, and armed with about sixty teeth as hard and
sharp as steel. Its length may reach nine feet, and it weighs from
three to four hundred pounds. A swift swimmer, it preys on the schools
of herrings, following them right up to Scottish waters. In spite of
its greed, it is noted for its mild temper, and frequently amuses
itself by playing round ships in the open sea.
Then there is the _Delphinus tursio_, or _souffleur_. This is smaller,
and its beak is shorter, though armed with strong, powerful teeth that
enable it to attack a big fish, pinning it down to the rocks with such
force that its nose is often deeply marked with numerous cuts. This
dolphin hates the very sight of a ship and never comes close to one.
My friend was beginning to tell me something about the porpoise, or
_marsouin_, the smallest species of the genus, when Jean-Marie Le
Floch put an end to the scientific discourse by a sudden shout. He was
positive, he declared, that he had just seen a dolphin jumping out of
the water about five hundred yards ahead of us!
"Are you quite certain about it, _mon garçon_?" said Desmond, eagerly
grasping his gun. "Did you really?"
"_Tenez, m'sieur!_" replied the lad. "There! there! Did you see it?"
[Illustration: A YACHT CHASING A SCHOOL OF DOLPHINS.
_From a Photograph._]
Sure enough, a black object had just shot out of the water,
disappearing again so quickly that I almost thought I had made a
mistake. Not so my friend. He had seen enough to convince him that the
dolphin was coming towards us at full speed, and accordingly got his
gun ready, meanwhile giving me some rapid hints about the best way of
shooting.
"Now, don't aim at the head," he told me. "Never at the head, whatever
you do."
"What a queer idea!" said I. "Wouldn't a bullet through its head stop
it dead?"
[Illustration: HAULING A DOLPHIN INTO THE YACHT'S DINGHY.
_From a Photograph._]
"Most certainly; but you would waste your powder and shot. The dolphin
would sink at once, taking away to the depths of the ocean both your
bullet and your five-franc premium. No; you must aim squarely at the
belly. Otherwise----Dear me!"
At that very moment the dolphin jumped clear out of the waves quite
close to us. Swift as lightning Desmond aimed at the flying monster,
shining in the sunlight about a hundred yards ahead, and pulled trigger.
"Well done! A splendid shot!" I shouted enthusiastically, as the bullet
took effect and the dolphin disappeared.
"It was _too_ splendid!" grumbled Desmond.
Without another word he jumped into the dinghy, towing astern, where
the boy was already waiting for him, a harpoon in his hand.
"Keep an eye upon it as soon as it comes up," he shouted to me, as he
scrambled for an oar.
"There it is! I see it, bleeding!" I cried. The wounded dolphin had
reappeared a short distance away, the foam of the waves around being
tinted red with its life-blood. Pointing out the right direction to the
pair in the boat, I shouted a few remarks after them.
"I should say it is sinking. Make haste! _Dépêchez-vous!_ It is turning
over on its back; I see only its white underside. Quick! Quick!"
"_Malheur de ma vie!_" I heard Desmond groaning in despair.
Under his very nose, just at the moment when Jean-Marie Le Floch was
about to throw his harpoon, the white spot suddenly disappeared; the
sea had swallowed the dead dolphin in an instant.
At that moment of bitter disappointment I foresaw the sad _dénouement_
of the venture: our shameful return empty-handed to the little harbour
amid the sneers of the old fishermen, who would inquire eagerly:--
"What about the porpoises, gentlemen? How many dolphins are you
bringing in?"
Assuredly there must be a special Providence which looks after
hunters--especially amateur ones. Just as I was about to sit down, in a
fit of despair, a flash caught my eye. Less than sixty yards from the
bow, where I was standing, and at about half that distance from the
dinghy, a school of dolphins had suddenly appeared!
With a quick motion I seized my gun, and as I raised it to my shoulder
my friend's admonitions were clean forgotten.
Bang! bang! bang! A positive frenzy of slaughter appeared to have taken
hold of me, and I kept on shooting just as long as the magazine of my
rifle held out. Meanwhile the two spectators in the dinghy were frantic
with joy. Never in my life have I heard so thick a rain of flattering
words as they showered upon me then.
[Illustration: THE CABIN-BOY WITH THE LAST DOLPHIN SHOT BY THE AUTHOR.
_From a Photograph._]
It is quite likely that several of my victims sank while breathing
their last, for I really cannot believe that a single one of my dozen
shots missed its mark. Be this as it may, however, I had undoubtedly
broken the record in dolphin-hunting, for, as a matter of fact, Desmond
and the boy succeeded in harpooning and bringing back half-a-dozen of
the creatures.
I am satisfied that Desmond is a sincere and trustworthy friend.
Nevertheless, I am not prepared to swear that he was not just a little
bit envious when we re-entered the harbour a few minutes after noon.
Just think of it! He, the veteran hunter, was coming back as he had
gone, empty-handed, whereas his pupil--the man to whom he had had to
explain what dolphin-hunting was--would be able to bring to-morrow to
the _commissaire des pêches_, the responsible official, six dolphin
tails, receiving from that worthy no less a sum than thirty francs!
Truly it must have been a sad blow for him.
Later in the afternoon the tide brought in a dying dolphin, too weak
to resist the flood and fight its way towards the open sea. Success
makes one generous, and I begged of Jean-Marie Le Floch to help himself
freely and take possession of the tail of my seventh dolphin, asking
him, by way of exchange, to pose as heroically as possible in front of
the camera by the side of my last victim.
Such was the _début_ of a Parisian journalist as a dolphin-hunter. Do
not ask me if I went out again on a similar quest. My initial exploit
has established my reputation as a dead shot, and I do not care to risk
the loss of my laurels.
_A Tragedy of the Nile._
+By Major D. G. Prendergast.+
A grim story of love, hate, and relentless vengeance. "The events
occurred in the early 'eighties," writes Major Prendergast. "I
learnt all the facts and met Mahkmoud, the central character, in
the course of my official duties."
The first act of this tragedy of real life took place at a small
village a few miles south of Assiout, the chief town of what in the
'eighties was known as Upper Egypt.
It was the end of September, after the Nile had overflowed its banks,
and the crops were full and green. The time was evening, and Mahkmoud,
one of the principal actors in my story, was sitting on the sun-dried
mud wall of one of the _shadoofs_ (irrigation wells) which watered his
land. He was at this time a man of some consequence in his village, and
for a fellah was counted rich, being the owner of a fair-sized piece
of fertile land. He was a man over six feet in height, with the broad
sinewy back and shoulders and general physical strength which is the
heritage of the fellaheen race of the Nile Valley. His head was large
and bullet-shaped, his neck thick-set, his eyes keen and deep-set,
while his mouth and chin plainly indicated that he was a man possessed
of great determination and of unusually strong passions.
To-night he sat and gazed moodily into the dark, transparent waters
of the rushing stream, black thoughts of vengeance crowding into his
brain, for he was in sore trouble. Of late the village gossips had been
busy connecting the name of his young wife, Rukhia, with one Abdul, the
ne'er-do-weel of the place.
In a small community no secret can remain hidden for long, and
although, naturally, Mahkmoud would be the last to hear of the scandal,
still it was only a matter of time before it reached his ears. Only
to-day his friends had hinted to him that his wife was, perhaps, not
quite all he thought her to be, and the name of Abdul was at the same
time carelessly introduced into the conversation. Now, Abdul had only
been back in his native village for six months; for the past seven
years, previous to his return, he had been serving his Highness the
Khedive as a conscript soldier in the Egyptian army.
The fellaheen of Egypt make docile, tractable soldiers, amenable to
discipline, keen on all routine work and peace soldiering, but lacking
that _élan_ and dash which are so valuable an asset in time of war.
Even in the Egyptian army, however, there are bad characters, and for
these there is a special corps--a sort of "Lost Legion." This corps
is known as the Discipline Company, and the life led by its members
is little better than that of the convict. Their uniform is of a much
brighter yellow than khaki, and each man wears an iron ring welded
round his right ankle. Abdul had finished the last three years of his
service in this ill-starred company. News spreads in a mysterious way
from village to village along the hundreds of miles from Cairo to the
frontier, and tidings of Abdul's doings during his soldiering career
had somehow reached his native village. It was not of a sort which was
likely to ensure a warm welcome for him on his return.
During the three years Abdul served out his time in the Discipline
Company he became intimately acquainted with many men who were among
the scum of the earth. When at length the period of service in this
Legion of the Lost was concluded, and its members returned to the world
and civil life, as often as not they led lives of crime and infamy
which generally brought them within reach of the law, so that most of
them ended their days in the convict prisons of Tourah or Tokar, and
the very worst of all in the hulk moored in Trinkitat Bay.
Years ago, before the lot of the conscript soldier had fallen on Abdul,
Mahkmoud and he had had bitter quarrels over the question of the
irrigation of their respective lands, which were adjacent to each other.
The water of the Nile is the very life-blood of the fellaheen, and he
who secretly or by stealth diverts the water from his neighbour's land
on to his own is guilty of a heinous crime. In days gone by Mahkmoud
had more than sufficient reason to suspect that the water from his
_shadoofs_ and _sakiehs_ had helped to irrigate his neighbour's land.
Many angry words had been exchanged in consequence, and a lifelong feud
had been established between the two men.
On the evening of the day this story opens, Mahkmoud sat and brooded
over all he had lately heard. Many little incidents in connection with
his young wife, to which at the time he had hardly given a passing
thought, now seemed to rise up clearly before him. He realized that
within the past six months his wife had changed from a pattern of
domestic drudgery--the usual lot of a fellah's wife--to a listless,
slovenly woman who found work too much for her. Often on his return
from a long day's labour in the fields he would find the evening
meal not yet ready, the fuel not gathered, and the _ziehs_ (earthen
water-jars) only half filled. Even his two little boys, who had
hitherto been the joy of their mother's life, did not seem any longer
to interest her. Mahkmoud also remembered, now that his jealousy was
aroused, how frequently on his return he found his wife out--absent
from home at hours when it is unusual for women to be away from their
domestic duties. There had even been an occasion when Mahkmoud had come
home in the grey dawn from watching his crops by night and scaring
away wild animals, when he found her outside the wall which surrounded
his house. At the time he thought it strange, but was satisfied with
some paltry excuse. Now, all these incidents loomed large before his
gaze, and he understood their meaning. To-night he vowed he would take
a terrible revenge--revenge upon his hated enemy and on his faithless
wife. He would wait and watch; he would bide his time. When it came,
the punishment he would mete out to the guilty pair would live in the
memory of his village for all time.
About a month before the events just described a stranger arrived in
the village, and the first man he met happened to be Mahkmoud. To him
the new-comer told a plausible story of how he had worked for the
eccentric sawerheen (white travellers) who were always digging amongst
the ruins of the ancient temples. Having scraped together enough money
to enable him to return to his native village near Wady Halfa, he was
on his journey back, when he had fallen amongst thieves and lost all
he possessed. He asked Mahkmoud to help him by giving him employment
during the season of the crops. For a few pence a day he worked for
Mahkmoud--irrigating the fields, watching his flocks of goats by day,
and taking his turn in frightening off wild animals from the growing
crops at night. He slept in a mud hovel with the goats, inside the
sun-baked mud wall which surrounded Mahkmoud's dwelling-houses. He was
a taciturn man, with an evil-looking countenance. He spoke to no one,
and no one spoke to him. If mentioned in conversation, men referred to
him as "ibn el kelp" (son of a dog), and mothers warned their children
to flee from his path should they meet him, and on no account whatever
to look at him, for he was a man possessed of "the evil eye" and would
cast a spell over them.
There was one man in the village, however, who knew this stranger, and
the stranger knew him. Abdul and the goatherd had toiled together for
many a weary day, with the iron ring on their ankles, in the ranks of
the Discipline Company. By tacit consent they never openly recognised
one another, and, as far as anyone knew, had never been seen to speak
to each other. Both inwardly feared one another and wondered when
the other would give him away. As a cat watches a mouse so did this
stranger watch Abdul, and it was not very long before he had made
himself acquainted with information for which it seemed that either
Abdul, his enemy, or Mahkmoud, his master, might think it worth while
to pay him handsomely.
One night, when his employer was away keeping watch over his crops, he
lay awake in his shed and heard footsteps steal silently past where he
lay. Then he heard the door of the walled enclosure quietly opened and
shut. Scenting that something was amiss, the goatherd stranger rose
and silently went in pursuit. Seeing nothing, he hid himself amongst
the mimosa bushes, which grew thick on both sides of the narrow path
leading from the door to the river-bank. Presently, from his place of
concealment, he beheld two forms walking up from the direction of the
river towards the house, and as they slowly passed the spot where he
lay hidden the watcher, by the light of the stars, recognised beyond
a doubt who the couple were. "Allah is great, and Mohammed is His
Prophet," murmured the stranger. "My enemy has now been delivered into
my hands. I will demand from the dog the sum of twenty Egyptian pounds,
and if he will not give them to me--then my employer knows all."
As the door softly closed, out of the deep shadow of the wall one
figure retraced its steps along the path towards the river. It was
Abdul. When he arrived at the spot where the path was narrowed by
the mimosa bushes, the watcher rose up and, stepping to the path,
confronted his man. Speaking in a low, hissing voice, he said, "Abdul,
you know me. I am a man of few words, and my words to you this night
are few."
Abdul, taken unawares, stood still, trembling, and then, recognising
who it was that spoke, answered, "What do you want with me at this hour
of night, you offspring of a snake?"
"I will tell you," the stranger replied. "Since my sojourn here I
have been employed in watching my master's property; both by day and
by night I have driven the noxious animals away. But there is one
foul bird of night that I have not driven away, and that, O Abdul,
is yourself. Now I will make this compact with you, who are in my
power. If you will give me the sum of twenty Egyptian pounds at
noon to-morrow I will go forth from here and return no more; and my
lips shall be for ever sealed. This I will swear by the beard of the
Prophet."
[Illustration: "HE MOVED FORWARD AS THOUGH TO PASS HIS MAN, WHEN THE
KNIFE FLASHED DOWNWARDS."]
The stranger folded his arms and stood silent, awaiting the reply.
After a pause, which to both men seemed an age, Abdul replied, "And if
I refuse this price of blackmail, how then? What can you do--a stranger
and a dog? Who, think you, will believe your perjured evidence?"
The goatherd did not immediately reply, and for a space the two men
stood confronting each other. Abdul was wearing a _gallibeah_--a long
cloak reaching from the neck to the feet, made of thick cotton stuff,
with very large loose sleeves. The stranger was dressed, as he slept,
in a cotton shirt and drawers. So it happened that Abdul was able,
unseen by his foe, to draw his knife from its sheath. (All the natives
of this country carry a big knife in a sheath strapped to the left arm,
just above the elbow.)
After a few moments had elapsed the stranger laughed a short, derisive
laugh, and, putting out his arm, as if to brush Abdul aside, said, "You
fool! At the rising of to-morrow's sun Mahkmoud shall know all." With
that he moved forward as though to pass his man, when the knife flashed
downwards, and with a choking, gurgling sound, followed by a deep sigh,
he sank to the earth, never to rise again!
Abdul's knife had been driven home to the hilt through his heart, and
the luckless goatherd's life-blood gushed out in a dark red stream,
spreading over the pathway. Abdul, having made sure that there was
no chance of life remaining, dragged the corpse into the bushes, and
hurriedly returned to the door in the shadow of the wall. Here he
imitated the cry of the night-bird--the preconcerted signal between
himself and Rukhia. After a pause the door was quietly opened once
more, and in the dark shadow Abdul hurriedly told her all that had
happened. Before they parted it was arranged as to what should be said
and done on the morrow. The blood-stained knife was hidden by the wife
in Mahkmoud's sleeping apartment. Her part of the crime was that she
should gain possession of her husband's knife after he had sunk into
the deep sleep which usually came upon him after a night of watching,
and throw it into the river.
The sun had scarcely risen above the line of the sand-hills on
the eastern bank before the whole village was astir and excitedly
discussing what was undoubtedly a murder. The Yushbashi (captain) of
police at Assiout was in due course informed. He and his men arrived
later, and after much talking and taking down of numerous notes which
had little bearing on the subject he ordered the body of the murdered
man to be carried to Assiout, almost half the population of the village
accompanying him as well.
[Illustration: ASSIOUT, WHERE MAHKMOUD WAS TRIED FOR HIS LIFE.
_From a Photograph._]
"The Mudir (the Egyptian governor) shall decide who is the culprit,"
said the officer.
The police, of course, had to find a culprit, and also procure
sufficient evidence to convict him, and this they proceeded to do. As
the result of their investigations the unhappy Mahkmoud was placed on
his trial for the murder. He pleaded "Not guilty," but otherwise had no
defence, admitting that he was absent from home from nine o'clock on
the night of the murder until about half-past four the next morning.
The police produced evidence that the murdered man and Mahkmoud were
not on good terms, that Mahkmoud's shoes were covered with blood, and
that they exactly fitted the footsteps on the path leading from the
scene of the murder to the house. It was also hinted that there was an
intrigue between the stranger and the wife. Finally, the prosecution
produced the blood-stained knife and sheath, which had been discovered
in a rat-hole in Mahkmoud's sleeping apartment. In addition, two
important witnesses were called. One was Abdul, who swore that on the
fatal night he was watching his crops some five hundred yards from the
spot where the body was found, and heard voices in angry altercation
some two hours before sunrise.
Rukhia, Mahkmoud's wife, then appeared, to everyone's astonishment, and
told a graphic story of how she was awakened some little time before
sunrise, and heard the voices of the stranger and her husband in a
heated argument. Mahkmoud then returned, much excited and swearing
fiercely. In the morning she noticed the blood-stained shoes and missed
the knife from the shelf where it was usually put. Later it was found
by the police who searched the house.
Mahkmoud, in spite of his protestations of innocence, was found
guilty--mainly on the circumstantial evidence of his wife and Abdul.
He was sentenced to death, which sentence was subsequently commuted to
penal servitude for the term of his natural life.
* * * * *
It would take too long to follow this miserable but innocent convict
through the weary years he spent working out his awful doom. To be able
to realize what an Egyptian convict's life is like one must at least
have seen the prisons and the hulk. The first five years were spent in
the prison at Tourah. The very fact that this man--so strong willed and
passionate by nature--was innocent drove him to the verge of frenzy,
and having become known as a dangerous and violent convict he found
himself confined first in a solitary cell, and then drafted to the
prison at Tokar. Here he was compelled to associate with the very worst
criminals in Egypt; and, breaking the rules again, he was sentenced
to undergo the remainder of his imprisonment on board the hulk in
Trinkitat Bay.
It is enough to say that this bay is on the Red Sea littoral, a
terrible place for any living man, white or black, to have to spend his
life. It was in this hulk that the writer saw Mahkmoud. Escape from
this floating jail is practically impossible. It is moored some seven
hundred yards from the shore, and the water teems with sharks, who
do not allow much to escape their observant eyes as they continually
cruise round the hulk.
Many times poor wretches doomed to this living grave have escaped from
Tokar Prison. It is easy, for the prison is only built of mud and
wattle, and the warders are very careless. But up to the time I shall
describe later no prisoner had been known to get far away.
Nomad tribes of Somalis and Arabs (the "Fuzzy-Wuzzies" of the days of
our fierce fights at El Teb and Tamai, Tokar and McNeill's Zareba) live
and move all round this part of the bush, occupying the few wells there
are, right up to the Erkoweit hills. The Government give the head-men
of these tribes substantial rewards for each fugitive they capture and
bring in, so that the convict's chance of escape is infinitesimal. They
must go to these tribes for food and water, or die of hunger and thirst
in the desert.
The Nile is the very life and soul of the Egyptian fellah, and the
captives of the Kings of Assyria, who sat down by the waters of Babylon
and wept, could not have longed more passionately for their Jewish
homes than did these poor outcasts to see once more their native
villages and taste "the sweet waters of the Nile."
"If I can but escape and reach those distant hills," they told
themselves, "then I can easily walk over them. There may still be a few
miles of desert sand to cross, but it will surely at length bring me
once again to the great beloved river, our Father Nile." This remark
has been made to the writer times without number when visiting the
convict gangs at work in the course of his official duties. But one and
all of the hapless wretches reckoned without the far-stretching, arid
sands or the prowling nomads, ever on the watch for fugitives.
One hot, still, starlight night, towards the end of the seventh year
of his penal servitude, whilst the sentry was snugly rolled up in his
blanket, Mahkmoud slipped overboard from the hulk and swam shorewards.
He had seen the sharks cruising slowly round the hulk for many a long
day, but, as he said in after years when telling the story of his
escape, "Better become food for sharks than endure a living death." As
luck would have it, he reached the beach safely, and after wandering
towards the distant hills all that day and night he was overcome with
hunger and thirst and, resigning himself to his fate, lay down under
the sparse shadow of a thorn-bush to die. But Providence decreed
otherwise. He was found by a party of raiding Baggara horsemen, who
carried him off to Adharama, the head-quarters of the celebrated
Dervish Emir, Osman Digna.
For the next two years Mahkmoud was a household slave in Osman Digna's
house. While he was there the Khalifa sent for his Governor of the
Eastern Sudan, and Mahkmoud accompanied his master. So once more, after
nine long years, he again set eyes on the River Nile.
Even now it was almost impossible to escape, for the wild Arab tribes
who at this time held sway over the country from Sarras to Fashoda
loathed and despised the Egyptian fellah, and no one would help him.
After three more years of bondage, however, spent between the Eastern
Sudan and Omdurman, Mahkmoud escaped, joined a caravan which was
bringing gum and ostrich feathers to the Egyptian frontier, and at last
found himself on the Egyptian Nile at Assouan.
* * * * *
By this time "the murder," as it was generally referred to, had almost
been forgotten by the villagers. If it was mentioned at all it was as
an historical event, generally to fix the date of some other event
which had occurred before or since.
The people, too, had almost forgotten Mahkmoud's existence; he was
either dead or as good as dead. Abdul, in due course, had taken Rukhia
to his harem as a wife, and she was the mother of his three children.
After Mahkmoud's transportation his brother, as is usually the case
when a widow re-marries, had taken over the care of his nephews,
together with his brother's land and property.
It was again September, and the hour before sunset, when the women
of the village had gone to draw water for their households. Abdul
was sitting in his house, and his three children were asleep in the
adjoining room. Suddenly a shadow was thrown across the room. Abdul
turned quickly, half rising as he did so, to see who it was. But in an
instant strong hands gripped his throat, and a voice, to him a terrible
one, hoarsely hissed into his ear, "It is I, Mahkmoud, who after many
years have not forgotten you!" Then a knife flashed for one moment
before his terrified eyes, and in another second Abdul lay dead upon
the floor, dead as his victim had lain in the path that fateful night
twelve years before!
Later Rukhia returned. The room was almost dark and, before she
realized that anything out of the ordinary had occurred, unseen hands
seized her from the darkness and a voice, as it were of the dead, said,
"It is your husband Mahkmoud who speaks to you, you false and perjured
woman. Go now to where Abdul has gone!"
* * * * *
At dawn next day Mahkmoud walked calmly into the police-station at
Assiout. Here he asked to see the Yushbashi of police, and when brought
before him said, very quietly, "My name is Mahkmoud. Twelve years ago I
was, through the false and perjured testimony of my wife and her lover,
convicted of murder and sentenced to death. Now I _am_ a murderer.
Arrest me. I have spoken."
[Illustration: "IT IS YOUR HUSBAND MAHKMOUD WHO SPEAKS TO YOU, YOU
FALSE AND PERJURED WOMAN."]
For a second time Mahkmoud was tried for his life in Assiout, found
guilty on his own confession, and sentenced to death. His Highness the
Khedive once again commuted his sentence to penal servitude for life.
After five years, during which Mahkmoud's character was exemplary, he
received a free pardon, and returned once more to his native village,
where he died, an old and broken man. There is an Arab proverb, "If
once you have tasted the sweet waters of the Nile, you will return to
drink of them again."
[Illustration:
A White Woman in Cannibal-Land.
+By Annie Ker.+]
Some incidents of a lady's life in the wilds of New Guinea. Miss
Ker went out to Papua--as the country is now called--attached to
a mission, and describes the many strange, amusing, and exciting
experiences she encountered during her seven years' sojourn among
the natives, who, not so very long ago, were always fighting and
much addicted to cannibalism--a practice which still prevails among
the wild tribes of the unexplored interior.