SHOWS THE USE WHICH A BLIND MAN MAY MAKE
OF A DARK NIGHT A WEEK
A week after Wilbraham's departure from Ronda, the night fell very dark
at Tangier. In the Sôk outside the city gate, the solitary electric lamp
from its tall mast threw a pale light over a circle of the trampled
grass, but outside the circle all was black. There was no glimmer in
the tents of the shoemakers at the upper corner of the Sôk; nor was
there any stir or noise. For it was past midnight and the world was
asleep--except at one spot on the hill-side above the Sôk, and a
little distance to the right.
There a small villa, standing by itself, shone gaudily in the heart of
the blackness. From its open windows a yellow flood of light streamed
out, and besides the light, the music of a single violin and the
rhythmical beat of feet. There were other noises too, such as the
popping of corks, and much laughter.
Outside the villa, and beyond the range of its light, a man and a boy
sat patient and silent. The man for his sole clothing wore a sack, but
a dark cloak lay on the ground beside him. With his hands he
continually tested a cord twisted from palmetto fibres, as though
doubtful of its strength. At length the door of the villa opened.
"Who comes out?" asked the man.
"A man and a woman," answered the boy.
"Describe the man to me."
"Big, fat--"
"That is enough."
The man and the woman passed through the little garden of the villa,
and walked down across the Sôk towards the city gate. The door opened
again and again. There was a continual sound of leave-taking in
different languages, mostly German and French, and between the man and
the boy the same dialogue was repeated and repeated. Some wore evening
dress, others did not. Some walked across the Sôk, others rode.
"They are all gone," said the boy.
"Wait," commanded the man.
"They are putting out the lights."
"Are all the lights out?"
"No, one light is burning."
"Wait!"
The door opened again, and two men in evening dress came out on to the
steps.
"There are two men," said the boy, "but only one wears a hat."
"Describe him to me."
"He is not tall, he is thin, but I cannot see his face for his hat."
"Look! look well!"
"He goes back into the house. He takes off his hat. Wait! He is
smoking. He strikes a match and holds it to his mouth. I can see him
now."
"Well! Of what colour is his hair?"
"Very fair--yellow. His face is round, his eyes are light."
The man in the sack ceased from his questions, but he gave no sign of
either approval or disappointment. He sat still in the darkness until
a voice from the little garden cried out with a French accent: "I
cannot think what has come to the beast. He has got loose. And he was
hobbled, Jeremy. You did hobble him, _hein?_"
The boy began to laugh. "The little fat Christian is looking for the
mule in the garden," said he. "Hush!" whispered the man, laying his
hand upon the boy's mouth. "Listen! What does the other answer? Listen
for his voice."
"He does not answer," returned the boy. "He leans against the door,
and smokes and waits, while the little fat Room searches for the
mule."
"Help to find the mule!"
The boy laughed again, rose from the ground, and disappeared into the
darkness. In a few minutes he returned, driving the mule in front of
him. He drove it through the wicket of the garden. A few words passed
between the little Frenchman and the boy. Then the boy came back to
the man seated patiently outside the rim of the villa's lights.
"What did he say to thee?" said the man.
"He asked me if I had stolen the hobbles."
"And thou didst answer?"
"That I knew nothing of the hobbles. I said that I had found the mule
loose in the Sôk, and seeing the lights, brought it to the house."
"It is well. Now go, my son; go home and sleep, and forget the hours
we have waited in the darkness outside the villa of the Room. Forget,
so that in the morning they shall never have been. Go! God will reward
thee!"
The boy turned upon his heel, and ran down towards the town. The man
was left alone. He remained squatting on the ground. He heard the
French voice exclaim: "Good-night, Jeremy."
But no answering voice returned the wish. Jeremy indeed contented
himself with a careless nod of the head, mounted his mule, and passed
out of the wicket gate. Jeremy passed within ten yards of the man
seated upon the ground, who heard the padding of the mule's feet upon
the grass and smelt the cigar.
He did not move, however. A road ran between this stretch of grass and
the Sôk beyond, and he waited until the mule's hooves rang upon it.
Then he picked up the dark cloak by his side and ran swiftly and
noiselessly down the grass, across the road, over the trampled Sôk.
Ahead of him he heard the leisurely amble of the mule.
"Stop!" he cried out in the Moghrebbin dialect. "I have the hobbles of
the most noble one."
He heard the mule stop, and ran lightly forward.
"Who is it?" asked Jeremy, in the same tongue, as he bent round in his
saddle.
"Hassan Akbar," cried the other, leaping at the point from which the
voice came. "Bentham, it is Hassan Akbar."
The man addressed as Bentham turned quickly in his saddle with a cry
and gathered up the reins; but he was too late. Even the cry was
stifled upon his lips. For Hassan threw the cloak over his head,
gathered it in tight round his neck, and still holding him by the
neck, dragged him out of the saddle and flung him on to the ground.
Bentham, half-throttled, half-stunned, lay for a moment or two upon
his back, limp and unresisting. When he came to himself, it was no
longer within his power to resist, for Hassan knelt straddled across
his body, pinning him to the ground with the weight of his stature.
One bony knee pressed upon his chest insufferably. Bentham's ribs
cracked under it; he felt that his ribs were being driven into his
lungs. The other knee held down his thighs, and while he lay there
incapable of defence, Hassan bound his arms tightly together with the
cord of palmetto fibres.
Bentham tried to shout, but the cloak was over his mouth: the knee was
grinding and boring into his chest, and his shout was an exiguous wail
which, when it had penetrated the cloak, was no more than a sigh. He
waited for the moment when the knee would be removed, and waited
motionless without a twitch of his muscles, so that Hassan might be
deceived into the belief that he had swooned, and remove his knee and
the cloak.
Hassan removed his knees, bent down to Bentham, twined one arm about
his legs, thrust the other underneath his neck, and lifted him from
the ground as though he was a child. Bentham was now less able to
shout than before, for the hand of the arm which was about his neck
pressed the cloak close upon his mouth.
Bentham struggled for his breath; Hassan's arms only tightened their
grip and held him like a coil of wire. An utter terror seized upon
Bentham. He remembered the darkness of the night, the lateness of the
hour, the silence of the Sôk, and from the manner of Hassan's walk, he
knew that he was being carried up the hill and away from Tangier. He
was helpless in the hands of a Moor whom he had irreparably wronged.
Death he knew he must expect; the question which troubled him was what
kind of death.
Hassan's foot struck against a rope drawn tight across his path, and
in Bentham hope for a moment revived. The rope was the stay of a tent,
no doubt. What if Hassan had lost his way and stumbled among the tents
of the shoemakers? But Hassan loosened the grip of the arm which held
his legs, and Bentham heard him fumbling with his hand for the
door-flap of the tent. Plainly Hassan had not missed his way.
Hassan dropt him on the ground, thrust him through the small opening,
and crawled in after him. Then he knelt beside Bentham, turned back
the cloak from his face, but tied it securely about his mouth. Bentham
could now see, and the flap of the tent was open. The tent was indeed
one of the low, tiny gunny-bag tents of the shoemakers, but it was set
far apart from that small cluster, as Bentham recognized in despair,
for through the aperture he could see a long way below him and a long
way to his right the electric light in the middle of the Sôk.
Outside the tent there was a sound of something moving. Bentham sat up
and tore at his gag with his bound hands.
"Why cry for help to a mule?" said Hassan, calmly. "Will a mule help
thee?" He leaned forward and tightened the knot which fastened the
cloak at the back of his head. Then he crawled out of the tent and
Bentham heard him tethering the mule to one of the tent-pegs.
Bentham was thus left alone. He had a few seconds, and he had at once
to determine what use he would make of those seconds. There was not
enough time wherein to free his hands. It would have been sheer waste
of time to free his mouth from the cloak. For none was within earshot
of that tent who would be concerned to discover the reason of a cry,
and the cry would not be repeated, since Hassan outside the tent was
still within arm's reach.
Instead, he hitched and worked his white waistcoat upwards from the
bottom, leaning forward the while, until his watch fell from the
pocket and dangled on the end of the chain; after his watch a metal
pencil-case rolled out and dropped between his knees. One of the two
things he meant to do was done. Hassan had bound his hands not palm
to palm, but wrist across wrist; and raising his hands he was able
with the tips of his right-hand fingers to feel in the left-hand
breast-pocket of his dress-coat. His fingers touched a small
pocket-book, opened it, and plucked out a leaf of paper. This leaf and
the pencil-case he secreted in the palm of his hand.
Hassan crawled back into the tent and closed the flap. Bentham, with
his knees drawn up to his chin, crouched back against the wall of the
tent. Now that the flap was closed, it was pitch-dark; that, however,
made no difference to Hassan Akbar, who lived in darkness, and out of
the darkness his voice spoke.
"The ways of God are very wonderful. You gave me this tent. With the
dollar you dropped on my knees at the gate of the cemetery, I bought
this tent and set it up here apart, to keep you safe for the little
time before you start upon your journey."
Bentham took no comfort from the passionless voice, though his heart
leaped at the words. He was not then to be killed. He did not answer
Hassan, but remained crouched in his corner.
"Now the dog of a Christian will speak," said Hassan, quietly. Bentham
made no movement. Hassan crawled towards him, felt his feet, his
up-drawn knees, and reaching his face untied the cloak from his mouth.
"Now the dog of a Christian will speak," he repeated softly, in a low
gentle voice, "so that I may know it is indeed Bentham, who took
shelter with me at Tangier, and ate of my _kouss-kouss_, and
thereafter betrayed me."
Bentham did not reply. If Hassan had a doubt, then it was his part to
make the most of it to prolong the solution of the doubt, to defer it,
if it might be, till the morning came. This was summer--July--the
morning comes early in July, not so early as in June, but still early.
Would that this had happened one month back!
Hassan kneeled upon his hams by Bentham's side. "Will not the dog of a
Christian speak?" he asked in a wheedling voice, which daunted and
chilled the man he spoke to. "Let us see!" And again his sinuous hands
lingered and stole over Bentham's face. The thumbs lingered about
Bentham's eyes.
Bentham shivered; but still, though the desire to shout, to curse, to
relieve by some violence, if only of speech, the tension he was
suffering, was strong, he mastered himself, he held his tongue, for if
once he did speak he betrayed himself. His only chance lay in Hassan's
doubt, which lived upon his silence. Again Hassan's fingers returned
to his face. Bentham closed his eyes; the thumbs touched and retouched
them, now pressing gently upon the eyeballs, now working about the
corners of the sockets. Finally Hassan snatched his hands away. "If I
did that," he murmured, "they would not take him, for he would fetch
no price;" and Bentham understood the fate which was in store for
him--if he spoke.
Hassan left his side, and was busy in a corner of the tent, at what
Bentham could not for the moment discover. He heard a cracking of
twigs; what was to follow? One instant he dreaded, the next he burned
to know, and all the while he shivered with terror. Hassan struck a
match and lit the twigs, and breathed upon the little blue flames,
until they warmed to yellow, and spirted up into a fire.
Bentham watched Hassan's gaunt, disfigured, inexpressive face, as he
crouched over the twigs, and his terror increased. He saw that he held
something in each hand, something that flashed bright, like a disk of
iron. Hassan laid the disks upon the twigs; they were the hobbles
which Bentham had placed upon his mule early that evening.
Bentham began to count the seconds; at any moment the morning might
begin to break, surely, surely. As he watched the hobbles growing hot
and the sparks dance upon the iron, he continued to count the seconds,
not knowing what he did, and at an incredible speed.
Hassan picked up the hobbles, each with a cleft stick, and brought
them over to Bentham. "Now the dog of a Christian will speak," said
he.
Bentham summoned all his courage, all his strength, and was silent.
Hassan reached out his hands, and drew his legs from under him, and
fitted the hobbles over his slippers, and fixed them round his ankles
like a pair of fetters.
Bentham uttered a cry--it was almost a scream--as the iron burnt into
his flesh. He kicked, he struggled to free his legs, to free his
hands; but Hassan Akbar dragged him forward, thrust him down upon his
back, and pinned his shoulders to the ground. Bentham could do no more
than vainly writhe in convulsive movements of his limbs. The hot iron
rings clung to his ankles; the smoke from the wood fire choked him;
the smell of burning flesh was acrid in his nostrils. Agony redoubled
his strength, but even so, he was too crippled, and Hassan's grasp
upon his shoulders did not relax.
In the end Hassan had his heart's desire, and Bentham spoke. He spoke
too in the low voice which Hassan enjoined, though he used it without
thought to obey,--low, voluble, earnest prayers for mercy, and then
again voluble curses, and again voluble appeals for pity, and at the
end of it a broken whimpering, as though his strength was gone, and
the convulsive jerks which a fish makes in a basket.
All the while Hassan held him down, listening to the appeals, the
prayers, the curses, with an untouched gravity of face. "It is indeed
you; I have made no mistake," and he freed him from the burning
fetters, and opened the flap of the tent. Bentham rolled over on his
side with his face to the opening, and lay there shaking, moaning.
"Now I will tell you what I have planned for you," continued Hassan.
"I thought at first to kill you, but it is so small a thing. Then I
remembered words you once told me, that you had trouble with your own
people, and could not ask them for protection. So friends of mine from
Beni Hassan, who go upon their way to-night, will take you with them,
and sell you when they are far away. And for the rest of your days you
will carry loads upon your back up and down the inlands of Morocco,
and your masters will beat you, and if you faint and are tired, they
will do strange things to make you suffer, even as I did with the
hobbles. Lo, here my friends come!"
The sound of steps came to their ears. A few moments later a hand
fumbled at the flap of the tent, opened it, and a head was thrust in.
"Is it you, Hassan Akbar?"
"Yes," replied Hassan; "and here is the Room whom you promised to take
out of my path. He will fetch a price, and besides I give to you his
mule, which you will find tethered to the tent."
"And the saddle too, Hassan, is it not so?"
"It is."
Meanwhile Hassan cut Bentham's clothes from him as he lay upon the
ground, and taking off his own sack, cast it for a garment over
Bentham's shoulders, and wrapped himself in the dark cloak. In the
place of that cloak he tied over Bentham's mouth a thick rag. Then he
thrust him out of the tent, and jerked him on to his feet. Bentham
made no longer any resistance; he let them do with him as they were
pleased; and he stood tottering and swaying.
Five Arabs waited outside the tent. "He cannot walk, he shall ride the
mule this night," said the chief of them. "To-morrow he shall learn to
walk."
They hoisted Bentham on to the back of the mule, and tied him there
with leathern thongs. Then they started on their long journey.
The cool night air after the stifling tent revived the man who
perforce rode the mule. It did not give him strength to resist, or as
yet even the impulse to cry out; but it restored to him the power to
hear and to understand. What he heard was a distant clock below him in
Tangier striking an hour; what he understood was that the hour it
struck was only one o'clock.