Two days following, towards evening, two wounded men on foot trudged
through the desert haggard and bent. The feet of one--an Arab--had on
a pair of red slippers, the feet of the other were bare. Mahmoud and
Macnamara were in a bad way. They were in very truth “walking against
time.” Their tongues were thick in their mouths, their feet were
lacerated and bleeding, they carried nothing now save their pistols
and their swords, and a small bag of dates hanging at Macnamara’s belt.
Prepared for the worst, they trudged on with blind hope, eager to die
fighting if they must die, rather than to perish of hunger and thirst
in the desert. Another day, and they would be beyond the radius of the
Khalifa’s power: but would they see another day?
They thought that question answered, when, out of the evening pink and
opal and the golden sand behind them, they saw three Arabs riding. The
friends of the slain dervishes were come to take revenge, it seemed.
The two men looked at each other, but they did not try to speak.
Macnamara took from his shirt a bag of gold and offered it to Mahmoud.
It was the balance of the payment promised to Ebn Mazar. Mahmoud
salaamed and shook his head, then in a thick voice: “It is my life and
thy life. If thou diest, I die. If thou livest, the gold is Ebn Haraf’s.
At Wady Halfa I will claim it, if it be the will of God.”
The words were thick and broken, but Macnamara understood him, and they
turned and faced their pursuers, ready for life or death, intent to
kill--and met the friends of Ebn Haraf, who had been hired to take them
on to Wady Halfa! Their rescuers had been pursued, and had made a detour
and forced march, thus coming on them before the time appointed. In
three days more they were at Wady Halfa.
Mahmoud lived to take back to Ebn Mazar the other hundred pounds of the
gold Macnamara had looted from the Khalifa; and he also took something
for himself from the British officers at Wady Halfa. For him nothing
remained of the desperate journey but a couple of scars.
It was different with Macnamara. He had to take a longer journey still.
He was not glad to do it, for he liked the look of the English faces
round him, and he liked what they said to him. Also, he was young enough
to “go a-roaming still,” as he said to Henry Withers. Besides, it sorely
hurt his pride that no woman or child of his would be left behind to
lament him. Still, when Henry told him he had to go, he took it like a
man.
“‘Ere, it ain’t no use,” said Henry to him the day he got to Wady Halfa.
“‘Ere, old pal, it ain’t no use. You ‘ave to take your gruel, an’ you
‘ave to take it alone. What I want to tell yer quiet and friendly, old
pal, is that yer drawfted out--all the way out--for good.”
“‘Sh-did ye think I wasn’t knowin’ it, me b’y?” Macnamara’s face
clouded. “Did ye think I wasn’t knowin’ it? Go an’ lave me alone,” he
added quickly.
Henry Withers went out pondering, for he was sure it was not mere dying
that fretted Macnamara.
The next day the end of it all came. Henry Withers had pondered, and his
mind was made up to do a certain thing. Towards evening he sat alone in
the room where Macnamara lay asleep--almost his very last sleep. All
at once Macnamara’s eyes opened wide. “Kitty, Kitty, me darlin’,” he
murmured vaguely. Then he saw Henry Withers.
“I’m dyin’,” he said, breathing heavily. “Don’t call anny one, Hinry,”
he added brokenly. “Dyin’s that aisy--aisy enough, but for wan thing.”
“‘Ere, speak out, Pete.”
“Sure, there’s no wan but you, Withers, not a wife nor a child av me own
to say, ‘Poor Peter Macnamara, he is gone.”’
“There’s one,” said Henry Withers firmly. “There’s one, old pal.”
“Who’s that?” said Macnamara huskily. “Kitty.”
“She’s no wife,” said Macnamara, shaking his head. “Though she’d ha’
been that, if it hadn’t been for Mary Malone.”
“She’s mine, an’ she ‘as the marriage lines,” said Henry Withers. “An’
there’s a kid-wich ain’t mine--born six months after! ‘Oo says no
kid won’t remark, ‘Poor Peter Macnamara, ‘ee is gone, wich’ee was my
fader!”’
Macnamara trembled; the death-sweat dropped from his forehead as he
raised himself up.
“Kitty--a kid av mine--and she married to Hinry Withers--an’ you saved
me, too!--” Macnamara’s eyes were wild.
Henry Withers took his hand.
“‘Ere, it’s all right, old pal,” he said cheerfully. “What’s the kid’s
name?” said Macnamara. “Peter--same as yours.”
The voice was scarce above a breath. “Sure, I didn’t know at all. An’
you forgive me, Hinry darlin’, you forgive me?”
“I’ve nothing to forgive,” said Henry Withers.
A smile lighted the blanched face of the dying man. “Give me love to
the b’y--to Peter Macnamara,” he said, and fell back with a smile on his
face.
“I’d do it again. Wot’s a lie so long as it does good?” said Henry
Withers afterwards to Holgate the engineer. “But tell ‘er--tell
Kitty--no fear! I ain’t no bloomin’ fool. ‘E’s ‘appy--that’s enough.
She’d cut me ‘eart out, if she knowed I’d lied that lie.”