"Really!" he said, his eyes glowing. "We are all the more in your debt.
But when you return, do not say anything about this," he touched his
left arm; "it's nothing. A bullet splintered the bone. It will do
quite well. My father will only worry if he knows of it. Have some
coffee and cigarettes," he continued, as a Zanzibar slave brought round
a tray. "Now you've given me the chance of stocking my fort with water
we can hold out until these tribes leave us alone to fight each other.
They're certain to do that soon. I need hardly tell you that we are all
very grateful indeed."
He turned and spoke to the others, who answered with a murmur of
respectful and dignified acquiescence.
Coffee was brought in tiny little enamelled metal cups, more cigarettes
were handed round, and the Prodigal Son kept us busy answering questions
about the latest news from Muscat; and, when he discovered that we were
practically ignorant of anything that was happening there, asked
questions about European politics, of which neither Popple Opstein nor I
knew much more. It seemed really most extraordinary that though he was
wounded and surrounded by the tribesmen from those two towns, thirsting
to eat up him and his handful of soldiers, he should interest himself in
events so far away. To show him that I was not altogether ignorant of
Court "goings on", I told him of the two sums of money which the Sultan
had already tried to send him overland.
"The Sultan is a good father; he deserves a better son," he said with
such engaging frankness that he raised himself tremendously in our
estimation. To cap all, I told him that he had sent five thousand
rupees with us, not daring to trust them by land again, and that if he
thought they would be of any use in pacifying the two tribes, I would
send them ashore directly we returned to the _Bunder Abbas_.
"If not," I added with a great show of importance, "I have orders to
take you back to Muscat."
He smiled, such a jovial frank smile that I could not wonder why he was
such a favourite with his father.
"What would you do in my place?" he asked. "Here I'm given a fairly
important job, to protect this well and keep peace between the two
towns. I've done it so successfully that they are as thick as thieves,
and are so hot-headed with the imagined strength of their combined
forces that they dare to revolt. Would you give up the job until you
were compelled, now that it has turned out a failure? A few more weeks,
perhaps months, a little money paid out here and there--now that you
have brought me some--and I shall be able to report that all is peace
again, and commence to levy taxes, of which (he shrugged his shoulders)
I have not sent to Muscat enough to buy a skinful of wine--not for the
last five months."
There was no necessity for us to tell him what we should do if we were
in his place--he knew; but the interview was becoming rather prolonged,
so I hinted to him that unless we showed ourselves outside the fort
fairly soon that six-pounder on board the _Bunder Abbas_ might "go off".
He smiled delightfully, apologized, and immediately led us out, down the
stone staircase, across the courtyard, through the passage-way with its
sleeping soldiers, and out into the glare of the open waste land. I
could have sworn that I heard some women's voices singing to the twang
of musical instruments, and women's merry laughter coming from an upper,
lattice-hid window. What a place for women, and how brave they must be
to be merry under these conditions! I could not help thinking of Jask
and those two ladies there, and wondered whether they kept up their
spirits as well as these did.
At last we were again in full view of the _Bunder Abbas_, and I guessed
that the sight of us must have been a great relief to Mr. Scarlett.
A brilliant idea struck the Prodigal Son.
"How much money did you say you brought? Five thousand? It's not much,
is it? but we'll see if the Khans of the two towns are open to a little
bribing. They often are, in spite of them being such important people,"
he laughed.
"I'll send messengers to them at once," he said. "Come down to the well.
We always discuss things there."
He gave some orders, and before we had reached the grateful shade of
those two nabac trees, two mounted Arabs, bearing white flags fastened
to spears, came out from the fort, separated, and galloped away along
the sands.
We sat down, thoroughly enjoying our amusing experience, and whilst we
were waiting I sent Griffiths in the dinghy to bring back the money
bags. Before he returned with them, nine or ten splendidly-mounted Arabs
had galloped up from the two towns and dismounted. Bowing in the most
dignified manner to the Prodigal Son and ourselves, they squatted in a
circle round us, keeping their eyes fixed on my chum's yellow hair and
blue eyes--in evident admiration. More coffee was brought from the fort
and more cigarettes were rolled, and a discussion--a very heated
discussion--took place, of which we, of course, could not understand a
word.
[Illustration: BOWING IN THE MOST DIGNIFIED MANNER TO THE PRODIGAL SON
AND OURSELVES, THEY SQUATTED IN A CIRCLE ROUND US.]
However, the Prodigal Son seemed to soothe them and when Griffiths came
up the beach with four fat bags of rupees--making two trips with
them--and dumped them down at my feet, they became very affable indeed.
To watch those dignified Arabs--half of them wounded and all of them
scarred--try to pretend not to be interested in the four bags, when all
the time their eyes kept turning towards them, evidently calculating how
much was inside, was as good as a play.
Eventually, after innumerable cups of coffee, everything seemed to have
been arranged peacefully. They rose to their feet, bowed to us, to the
Prodigal Son, to each other, mounted their horses, and rode back to the
two towns, leaving us alone.
"Well, I cannot thank you enough," he began, his face twitching as he
pressed one hand against his broken arm, as though the pain was very
great. "With your help, and with the money my father sent me, I have
patched up the quarrel, and I trust it will be lasting."
"The quarrel or the patching up?" Popple Opstein interrupted admiringly.
"I do really believe you'd prefer the first."
I'm certain that he was right too.
We induced him to come aboard the "_B.A._", which he did in the
uncomfortable little dinghy, first having sent the bags of silver into
the fort, and he made himself so agreeable to Mr. Scarlett that the
gunner's dark eyes glowed with pleasure.
"Will you do me one more favour?" he asked before he went ashore. "The
Sultan will be anxious to hear how things are--you have seen for
yourself. He is an old man, and he worries. Both of us will be the more
grateful if you let him know as soon as you can."
We were so carried away by his delightful personality that within an
hour the "_B.A._" was steaming back to Muscat, going so fast--to save
daylight--through that tricky channel that the lascar drivers were
scared to death by the noise of steam escaping through the piston-rod
gland. We saved daylight right enough, and were soon tumbling about in
the swell outside; but the gland gave so much trouble that we could only
manage to go dead slow, with barely enough way to prevent the _Bunder
Abbas_ being driven on the rocks, where the roar of the breaking swell
boomed in our ears all night. We had a most horrid time of it--old
Popple Opstein and I--not knowing from one minute to another when the
engines would stop entirely. It was not the slightest use to try to
reach Muscat, and I only waited for the first streak of daylight to
crawl back through the channel into safety.
My lascar first-driver said he could repair the gland in two days at
anchor, and I intended anchoring close to the fort again; but before we
were clear of the channel the packing blew out altogether, the
engine-room was filled with steam--the whole launch seemed to be in a
cloud of it--and the engines stopped entirely so there was nothing to do
but anchor where we were. It was a beastly nuisance, because I was so
anxious to take the news to Muscat as quickly as possible; otherwise I
did not care a rap.
Popple Opstein suggested that we should sail the dinghy up to the fort
and spend the day with the Prodigal Son. No sooner said than done. Out
went the dinghy; Griffiths stepped the mast and put up the sail; my chum
and I jumped in with a loaf of bread, a tin of tongue, and some
sardines, and off we went, only to pull back again for water and for
Jaffa--we had forgotten both, and both were necessities. We drifted and
sailed, pulled round corners, and sailed again until we came out into
the open "khor", met a fairly-steady breeze--a soldier's breeze--which
filled our little sail, and made us bubble through the water.
In a couple of hours from leaving the "_B.A._" we were hauling the
dinghy on to the sand, close by the well, and were tramping up to the
fort as happy as schoolboys, leaving Jaffa to guard the boat from a
crowd of loafing Arabs who surrounded it. We noticed one thing
immediately--the horses, camels, sheep, and goats were now outside the
fort, so we knew at once that all was peace.
However, the Prodigal Son was not at home--we imagined that he had
perhaps gone to distribute the money; so, as the silly soldiers at the
big door would not let us inside, we amused ourselves by examining the
outer walls, walking all round them and looking up at the battlements
and the muzzles of the silly little cannon sticking out from the towers
at the corners. The walls were pitted everywhere with bullet marks,
especially round the loopholes, and we felt that we had underrated the
Arab marksmanship. The heat thrown back from those lofty bare red-brick
walls was so great that soon we were only too glad to go back to the
shade of the nabac trees near the well, until the attentions of the
crowd gathered there became rather irritating and the beastly flies
almost insupportable. So off we went for a short walk to have a look at
Heija.
Whilst we were wandering round it, feeling like a couple of trippers, we
turned round a corner, and, clatter, clatter, with a smother of dust, a
dozen or more Arab horsemen dashed madly past us. Behind them, at a
more dignified pace, cantered others, and among these we at once
recognized the Prodigal Son, who, catching sight of us, drew his horse
back almost on his haunches to speak to us. On his right wrist was a
hooded falcon, and he was holding the reins with his left hand--holding
in a troublesome, fiery horse with the arm we had seen bandaged to his
side the day before, the one he had said was broken. Although we
recognized several of the cavalcade, not one now had a bandage or a sign
of a wound; even the man whose leg had been swathed in cotton was
joyously curveting and pirouetting on a splendid horse.
For a minute neither of us quite realized the real truth. Then, when we
looked enquiringly at his left arm, the Prodigal Son burst out laughing,
and even the older, more dignified among them smiled grimly.
They lent us a couple of horses to ride back with them, and old Popple
Opstein disgraced himself by falling off, but afterwards managed to
stick on until we reached the fort. There we were taken up to that same
audience-hall and had more cigarettes and coffee. The Prodigal Son never
gave us a chance of asking for an explanation of the marvellous
recoveries, and presently we found ourselves sailing merrily back to the
"_B.A._", so delighted with his amusing, frank manner that it was not
until we were halfway there that we even began to wonder what was the
meaning of it.
Jaffa's dignified face had been gradually relaxing, as if he was
bursting to tell us something amusing.
"Out with it, Jaffa," I called. "What is it?"
"Very much laughter--in Heija--in Shateif also--make much fool of
Sultan--poor people very angry--sheikhs and soldiers much joy. Plenty
men from Heija and Shateif come to well--tell me. All pretence--the
fighting--surround fort--much powder play--news goes Muscat--Sultan's
son in much danger--want money--buy peace--money comes--son rob
caravan--Sultan think wild Bedouin rob caravan--send more--son rob
that--writes letter that he in much danger--Sultan thinks money never
come to him--so send more money in _Bunder Abbas_."
"But we saw them fighting like 'billy loo', going it 'hammer and tongs'
yesterday. You mustn't believe everything you hear," I said,
incredulous still.
Jaffa shook his head. "All game--make pretence to fight--all men know
_Bunder Abbas_ bringing more money--runner come from Muscat in early
morning--when they see her come, begin pretend fight--fort fires powder
from cannon--men fire rifles--take no aim--only make noise. Then hurry,
pretend have many wounds when masters land--take money--send masters
away with good tale for Sultan."
"Nonsense!" Popple Opstein blurted out; "the walls are peppered with
bullet holes. We've seen them ourselves."
Jaffa smiled again. "Make them--themselves--when merry--fire at
loophole for target--all play."
My chum was the first to believe the yarn. He roared with laughter.
"It all fits in like a puzzle. The Prodigal Son! What a name for the
chap! That's why they all looked like cripples yesterday, and left off
their bandages to-day. My holy Moses! the whole thing was a 'plant',
simply to delude us. What a chap! Didn't you hear those girls singing
and laughing? They wouldn't have been there if there had been real
fighting--or they wouldn't have been so cheery. D'you remember the rush
for water? My sacred aunt!"
He kept on roaring with laughter every few minutes.
As he had said, the whole thing fitted in like a puzzle. It amused him,
but it did not amuse me to be made a fool of. I was very angry, though
with my chum in the boat it was impossible to remain angry for long, and
soon I, too, saw the funny side of the expedition, and was laughing as
much as he was.
And the Prodigal Son had been so anxious for us to hurry back to Muscat,
and so anxious for us not to mention his poor wounded arm to his father!
Of course not! It was all as plain as a pikestaff now. If the Sultan
heard of it, back to Muscat he would order him, and evidently the fatted
calf there was not half so much to his liking as the spree he was having
in that fort.
On our return to the _Bunder Abbas_ we told Jaffa not to breathe a word
of this to anyone.
By next night the steam gland had been repacked so, threading our way
out again to the sea, we steamed back to Muscat.
I went across to the _Intrepid_ and told Commander Duckworth everything.
He, too, roared with laughter but quickly checked himself.
"That's all right. It doesn't matter one way or the other. You saw the
battle; you got there just in time to stop it; the money was just in
time to make peace; and you saw the Prodigal Son, as you call him, out
hawking. That is all the Sultan wants to know, and he'll be just as
grateful to us as though you had actually rescued him."
And he was, too, and sent me a Mauser pistol, just like Jaffa's, as a
present.
*CHAPTER XIV*
*We Deal with Jassim*
The packing in the high-pressure piston-rod gland blew out again as we
anchored at Muscat. As a matter of fact, the whole of our engines
required a thorough overhaul after practically four months of almost
continuous steaming; and though the lascar engine-drivers had done their
best--a very poor best--it was now entirely beyond their capabilities to
put things to "rights", and make all the necessary readjustments and the
_Bunder Abbas_ again fit for sea.
In these circumstances, and as neither the political agent nor Commander
Duckworth had anything very pressing for us to do, artificers were sent
across from the _Intrepid_ to carry out the necessary repairs. Whilst
they were opening out the engines, working and sweating down below,
there was, of course, but little to do on deck, and I had at first a
very pleasant, lazy time indeed--pleasant, at any rate, after five
o'clock in the evening. Before five o'clock the heat was much too great
except to pant and perspire under the awnings; after that hour one's
muscles began to call out for exercise. Then, with Popple Opstein and
the rest of the _Intrepid's_ officers, we would often pull across to a
sandy beach--where no sharks ventured--about a mile from the rock on
which the southern of those two old Portuguese forts stood, and have
grand bathing picnics--in and out of the water for a couple of hours at
a time. Occasionally fifty or sixty of the men would come with us and
drag the seine-net, for the sea was simply alive with fish. If we did
not do this, we would go up to the political agent's house and play
tennis in the compound there--on a concrete court--in the most terrible
glare; or perhaps we would wander out through the main gates of the town
and scramble about the ravines and defiles leading inland.
I have never in my life been in such a hot place as this was. The
little white town of Muscat is surrounded by bare, razor-backed,
volcanic, rocky ridges; the harbour itself is enclosed by more black,
naked cliffs, and these seem to collect the violent heat of the sun all
day to give it out all night. The temperature in the shade on board
seldom fell below a hundred degrees during the day, and seldom dropped
more than four or five degrees at night. Sleep under these conditions
was very difficult, very unrefreshing, and often I have tumbled and
sweated on my grass mat till daybreak, kept awake by the oppressive heat
and the weird chants of the watchmen calling across the harbour from the
towers of the two great forts.
Several of my men went sick. Little wounds (a scratched mosquito bite,
for instance) simply would not heal; and Wiggins, the broken-rib man,
had to be sent down to Karachi suffering from fever. He was very loath
to go, poor chap.
For the first two or three days Mr. Scarlett was quite happy. I let him
take some men ashore to paint the name of the launch on the rocky face
of one of the sides of the harbour. He painted it in white letters,
four feet long--"BUNDER ABBAS"--among the names of a hundred other ships
which had done the same during the last twenty years, and this kept his
mind occupied; but after he had finished, he shrank into his usual
saturnine self, his dark eyes seemed to sink farther back than ever
beneath his shaggy eyebrows, and he spent his whole time watching lest
Jassim should come again. For fear of seeing him, and for fear of any
violence, he never ventured on the mainland.
Jassim had sent him another letter, increasing his offer to fifteen
thousand rupees if only Mr. Scarlett would let him have the bracelet.
My chum happened to be on board when the letter arrived, and we both
went over the same old arguments as before, doing our utmost to persuade
him to take the risk, and holding out before him all he could do with
the money--a thousand pounds would be a fortune to him--and how with
that and his pension he could retire and live comfortably ever after.
If he had been an ordinary warrant-officer we might have argued with him
successfully. But he was not; he was more than half-Arab, by nature and
upbringing if not by birth; and if our arguments were met at first by a
half-shrinking consent, the possibility of a fatal result would so
terrify him immediately afterwards that he always ended with a flat,
sullen refusal.
"Kismet," he would groan, and once he had used that word we knew it was
impossible to move him.
If he did agree to accept the increased offer we were to hoist a red
flag; and the mere knowledge that evening that Jassim's gloomy eyes were
watching us from shore, awaiting his signal, made even my chum and
myself feel nervous. It drove Mr. Scarlett into the locked cabin, where
he stewed all night.
As you can imagine, this state of things was bad for his health, and
when one day he ran a rusty nail into the palm of his left hand the
wound festered, and the hand and the whole of his arm swelled
tremendously.
He was so ill that Nicholson, the staff surgeon of the _Intrepid_,
determined to give him chloroform, and make deep cuts into both hand and
arm. The snake, of course, would have to be exposed during the
operation, and Mr. Scarlett was so desperately anxious that no one else
should know anything about it that he only consented when Nicholson
promised (I had told him about it) to come across to the _Bunder Abbas_,
and, if Popple Opstein and I would stand by and give him a hand, do it
there. He came that very evening, when the great heat of the day was
over, and we (with Percy terrified and sad) cleared a space on the
little upper deck, just outside the cabin, for the operation. Having
kicked Percy down the steps and screened the deck from observation,
Nicholson began.
It is not necessary to go into all the details, but when Mr. Scarlett,
lying on the deck, was thoroughly insensible, we unwound the bandage and
found the beastly snake almost sunk in a deep groove of the mottled,
swollen skin, clinging ever so tightly. I noticed Nicholson run his
finger along it until he came to the head, when he tried to pass one
finger under the jaw, but my nerves were very much on the stretch. I
saw him pick up a knife, and, not being used to such things, turned away
my head. It was not till Mr. Scarlett had given one or two sudden,
half-conscious moans that I turned round again. There were the deep
cuts in the arm and hand, but--I almost started out of my skin--the
snake had disappeared, and only the deep groove round the arm remained,
the scale marks showing how tightly the snake must have buried itself.
Nicholson quietly pointed to a corner of the deck close to the funnel,
and there, sparkling in a patch of sunlight coming under the edge of the
awning, was the bracelet--writhing, coiling, and uncoiling, drawing
back, and striking with its head.
Popple Opstein's face was blue, his mouth wide open, his eyes staring at
it, his great red hands shaking violently.
Nicholson went on with his work.
"Good God!" I at last managed to gasp. "Did it bite him or you?"
Nicholson did not answer. Mr. Scarlett was recovering consciousness
now, and he was working very rapidly. Popple Opstein and I had to fly
round and do this and that as he bade us. There was no time to ask
questions or answer them.
At last Nicholson, starting to bandage the arm, asked for a piece of
rope--a couple of feet of signal halyard.
"Now a needle and thread," he called, and, when I fetched them, sewed
the bandage very securely.
Not till then had I time to look at the snake again.
It was now lying perfectly still, coiled closely like a watch-spring,
the flat head pressed over the coils and the light flickering in its
green opal eyes and playing on the enamelled scales.
Nicholson, busy holding Mr. Scarlett's head, jerked out: "Hide it!
"Pick it up," he said irritably, as my chum hesitated to touch it; "the
confounded thing won't hurt you."
Popple Opstein stooped and took hold of it very gingerly. As it did not
move he held it in the palm of his hand, and we were both examining its
marvellous beauty when Nicholson again jerked out: "Hide it
somewhere--lock it up--Mr. Scarlett's coming round--he mustn't see it."
I took it very nervously from Popple Opstein, and in the excited state
of my nerves, its scales seemed to press themselves into my hand and
wriggle. I could only just prevent myself dropping it, and darted into
the cabin and locked it in my one drawer.
"Now, help me to lift him," Nicholson called out, and in a couple of
minutes Mr. Scarlett lay moaning in his bunk, with the bad arm swathed
in cotton-wool and bandages.
"He'll do all right now. Give me a drink, and have this mess cleared
up," Nicholson said gruffly.
"How did you do it?" I asked him.
"Feel that," he answered, and with a blood-stained finger and thumb
pinched the end of one of my fingers.