Day after day, for many days, our captives were thus driven over the
burning desert, suffering intensely from heat and thirst and hunger, as
well as from fatigue, and treated with more or less cruelty according to
the varying moods of their guards.
At last one afternoon they arrived at a city of considerable size,
through the streets of which they were driven with unusual harshness by
the Arab soldiers, who seemed to take pleasure in thus publicly heaping
contempt on Christian captives in the sight of the Mohammedan
population.
Their case seemed truly desperate to Miles, as he and his comrades
passed through the narrow streets, for no pitying eye, but many a frown,
was cast on them by the crowds who stopped to gaze and scoff.
What city they had reached they had no means of finding out, being
ignorant of Arabic. Indeed, even though they had been able to converse
with their guards, it is probable that these would have refused to hold
communication with them.
Turning out of what appeared to be a sort of market-place, they were
driven, rather than conducted, to a whitewashed building, into which
they entered through a low strong door, studded with large iron-headed
nails. As they entered a dark passage, the door was slammed and locked
behind them. At first, owing to their sudden entrance out of intensely
bright day, they seemed to be in profound darkness, but when they became
accustomed to the dim light, they found that they were in the presence
of several powerful men, who carried long Eastern-like pistols in their
girdles, and curved naked swords in their hands. These stood like
statues against the wall of the small room, silently awaiting the orders
of one whose dress betokened him of superior rank, and who was engaged
in writing with a reed in Persian characters. A tall, very
black-skinned negro stood beside this officer.
After a few minutes the latter laid down the reed, rose up, and
confronted the prisoners, at the same time addressing some remark to his
attendant.
"Who is you, an' where you come fro?" asked the negro, addressing
himself to Miles, whom he seemed intuitively to recognise as the chief
of his party.
"We are British soldiers!" said Miles, drawing himself up with an air of
dignity that would have done credit to the Emperor of China. You see,
at that moment he felt himself to be the spokesman for, and, with his
comrades, the representative of, the entire British army, and was put
upon his mettle accordingly. "We come from Suakim--"
"Ay, black-face!" broke in Jack Molloy at that moment, "and you may tell
him that if he has the pluck to go to Suakim, he'll see plenty more
British soldiers--an' British seamen too--who'll give him an' his
friends a hot and hearty welcome wi' bullet, bayonet, and cutlash
whenever he feels inclined."
"Are you officer?" asked the negro of Miles, and not paying the smallest
attention to Molloy's warlike invitation.
"No, I am not."
Turning to the armed men, the officer gave them an order which caused
them to advance and stand close to the Englishmen--two beside each
prisoner--with drawn swords. An extra man took up his position behind
Molloy, evidently having regard to his superior size! Then two men, who
looked like jailers, advanced to Stevenson, cut the cords that bound his
arms, and proceeded to put iron fetters on his wrists.
"Comrades," said Molloy, in a low voice, when he perceived that his turn
was coming, "shall we make a burst for it--kill them all, get out into
street, cut and slash through the town, and make a grand run for it--or
die like men?"
"Die like fools!" growled Simkin, as he suffered his hands to be
manacled.
"No, no, Jack," said Armstrong; "don't be rash. Let's bide our time.
There's no sayin' what'll turn up."
"Well, well," sighed Molloy, resigning himself to his fate, "there's
only one thing now that's sartin sure to turn up, an' that is the sod
that'll cover our graves."
"You're not sure even of that, man," said Moses Pyne, who was beginning
to give way to despair, "for may-hap they'll only dig a hole in the
sand, an' shove us in."
"More likely to leave the dogs an' vultures to clear us out o' the way,"
said Simkin, whose powers of hope were being tested almost beyond
endurance.
While the prisoners indulged in these gloomy anticipations, the
operation of fixing their irons was finished, after which they were
taken across an inner court which was open to the sky. At the other
side of this they came to another heavy iron-studded door, which, when
opened, disclosed a flight of steps descending into profound darkness.
"Go in!" said the negro, who had accompanied them.
Molloy, who was first, hesitated, and the tremendous flush on his face,
and frown on his shaggy brows, seemed to indicate that even yet he
meditated attempting his favourite "burst"! But Stevenson, pushing past
him, at once descended, saying, as he went, "Don't be foolish, Jack; we
_must_ learn to submit."
There were only three steps, and at the bottom a room about fifteen feet
square, to enlighten which there was a small hole high up in one of the
walls. It did little more, however, than render darkness visible.
"God help us!" exclaimed Miles, with a sensation of sinking at the heart
which he had never felt before.
And little wonder, for, as their eyes became accustomed to the dim
light, it was seen that the walls were blank, with nothing on them to
relieve the eye save the little hole or window just mentioned; that the
floor was of hard earth, and that there was not a scrap of furniture in
the room--not even a stool, or a bundle of straw on which to lie down.
"`I will trust, and not be afraid,'" said Stevenson, in a low voice.
"Who will you trust?" asked Simkin, who was not aware that his comrade
had quoted Scripture.
"I will trust God," answered the marine.
"I wouldn't give much for your trust, then," returned Simkin bitterly,
as well as contemptuously, for he had given way to despair. "You Blue
Lights and Christians think yourselves so much better than everybody
else, because you make so much talk about prayin' an' singin', an' doin'
your duty, an' servin' God, an' submitting. It's all hypocrisy."
"Don't you believe that Sergeant Hardy is a good soldier?" asked
Stevenson.
"Of course I do," replied Simkin, in some surprise at the question.
"An' _he_ doesn't think much of himself, does he?" continued the marine.
"Certainly not. He's one o' the kindest an' humblest men in the
regiment, as I have good reason to know."
"Yet he frequently talks to us of attendin' to our duty, an' doin'
credit to the British Flag, an' faithfully serving the Queen. If this
is praiseworthy in the sergeant, why should the talk of duty an' service
an' honour to God be hypocrisy in the Christian? Does it not seem
strange that we Blue Lights--who have discovered ourselves to be much
worse than we thought ourselves, an' gladly accept Jesus as our Saviour
from sin--should be charged with thinkin' ourselves `_better_ than other
people'!"
"Come now," cried Jack Molloy, seating himself on the floor, and leaning
his back against the wall; "it do seem to me, as you putt it, Stevenson,
that the charge ought to be all the other way; for we, who make no
purfession of religion at all, thinks ourselves so far righteous that
we've got no need of a Saviour. Suppose, now, as we've got to as low a
state o' the dumps as men can well come to, we all sits down in a row
an' have a palaver about this matter--Parson Stevenson bein' the chief
spokesman."
They all readily agreed to this proposal. Indeed, in the circumstances,
any proposal that offered the faintest hope of diverting their minds
from present trouble would have been welcome to them at that moment.
The marine was nothing loath to fall in with the fancy of his
irrepressible comrade, but we do not propose to follow them in the talk
that ensued. We will rather turn at once to those events which affected
more immediately the fortunes of the captives.
On the morning after their arrival in the city there was assembled in
the principal square a considerable concourse of Soudan warriors. They
stood chatting together in various groups in front of a public building,
as if awaiting some chief or great man, whose richly caparisoned steed
stood in front of the main entrance, with its out-runner standing before
it.
This runner was a splendid specimen of physical manhood. He was as
black as coal, as graceful as Apollo, and apparently as powerful as
Hercules,--if one might judge from the great muscles which stood out
prominently on all his limbs, he wore but little clothing--merely a pair
of short Arab drawers of white cotton, a red fez on his head, and a
small tippet on his shoulders. Unlike negroes in general, his features
were cast in a mould which one is more accustomed to see in the
Caucasian race of mankind--the nose being straight, the lips
comparatively thin, and the face oval, while his bearing was that of a
man accustomed to command.
The appearance of a few soldiers traversing the square drew the eyes of
all in their direction, and caused a brief pause in the hum of
conversation. Our friends, the captives, were in the midst of these
soldiers, and beside them marched the negro interpreter whom they had
first met with in the prison.
At the door of the public building the soldiers drew up and allowed the
captives to pass in, guarded by two officers and the interpreter.
Inside they found a number of military men and dignitaries grouped
around, conversing with a stern man of strongly marked features. This
man--towards whom all of them showed great deference--was engaged when
the captives entered; they were therefore obliged to stand aside for a
few minutes.
"Who is he?" asked Molloy of the negro interpreter.
"Our great leader," said the negro, "the Mahdi."
"What! the scoundrel that's bin the cause o' all this kick-up?" asked
Jack Molloy, in surprise.
The interpreter did not quite understand the seaman's peculiar language,
but he seemed to have some idea of the drift of it, for he turned up his
up-turned nose in scorn and made no reply.
In a few minutes an officer led the captives before the Mahdi, who
regarded them with a dark frown, directing his attention particularly to
Jack Molloy, as being the most conspicuous member of the party, perhaps,
also, because Molloy looked at him with an air and expression of stern
defiance.
Selecting him as a spokesman for the others, the Mahdi, using the negro
as an interpreter, put him through the following examination:--
"Where do you come from?" he asked, sternly.
"From Suakim," answered Molloy, quite as sternly.
"What brought you here?"
"Your dirty-faced baboons!"
It is probable that the negro used some discretion in translating this
reply, for the chief did not seem at all offended, but with the same
manner and tone continued--
"Do you know the number of men in Suakim?"
"Yes."
"Tell me--how many?"
To this Molloy answered slowly, "Quite enough--if you had only the pluck
to come out into the open an' fight like men--to give you such a lickin'
that there wouldn't be a baboon o' you left in the whole Soudan!"
Again it is probable that the interpreter did not give this speech
verbatim, for while he was delivering it, the Mahdi was scanning the
features of the group of prisoners with a calm but keen eye.
Making a sign to one of his attendants to lead Molloy to one side, he
said a few words to another, who thereupon placed Miles in front of his
master.
"Are you an officer?" was the first question put.
"No," answered our hero, with quiet dignity, but without the slightest
tinge of defiance either in tone or look.
"Will you tell me how many men you have in Suakim?"
"No."
"Dare you refuse?"
"Yes; it is against the principles of a British soldier to give
information to an enemy."
"That's right, John Miles," said Molloy, in an encouraging tone; "give
it 'im hot! They can only kill us once, an'--"
"Silence!" hissed the Mahdi between his teeth.
"Silence!" echoed the interpreter.
"All right, you nigger! Tell the baboon to go on. I won't run foul of
him again; he ain't worth it."
This was said with free-and-easy contempt.
"Do you not know," resumed the Mahdi, turning again to Miles with a
fierce expression, "that I have power to take your life?"
"You have no power at all beyond what God gives to you," said Miles
quietly.
Even the angry Mahdi was impressed with the obvious truth of this
statement, but his anger was not much allayed by it.
"Know you not," he continued, "that I have the power to torture you to
death?"
Our hero did not at once reply. He felt that a grand crisis in his life
had arrived, that he stood there before an assemblage of "unbelievers,"
and that, to some extent, the credit of his countrymen for courage,
fidelity, and Christianity was placed in his hands.
"Mahdi," he said, impressively, as he drew himself up, "you have indeed
the power to torture and kill me, but you have _not_ the power to open
my lips, or cause me to bring dishonour on my country!"
"Brayvo, Johnny! Pitch into him!" cried the delighted Molloy.
"Fool!" exclaimed the Mahdi, whose ire was rekindled as much by the
seaman's uncomprehended comment as by our hero's fearless look and tone,
"you cannot bring dishonour on a country which is already dishonoured.
What dishonour can exceed that of being leagued with the oppressor
against the oppressed? Go! You shall be taught to sympathise with the
oppressed by suffering oppression!"
He waved his hand, and, quickly leaving the court, walked towards his
horse, where the fine-looking negro runner stood and held his stirrup,
while he prepared to mount. Instead of mounting, however, he stood for
a few seconds looking thoughtfully at the ground. Then he spoke a few
words to the runner, who bowed his head slightly as his master mounted
and rode away.
Grasping a small lance and flag, which seemed to be the emblems of his
office, he ran off at full speed in front of the horse to clear the way
for his master.
At the entrance to the building an official of some sort took hold of
Miles's arm and led him away. He glanced back and observed that two
armed men followed. At the same time he saw Molloy's head towering
above the surrounding crowd, as he and his comrades were led away in
another direction. That was the last he saw of some at least, of his
friends for a considerable time.
Poor Miles was too much distressed at this sudden and unexpected
separation to take much note of the things around him. He was brought
back to a somewhat anxious consideration of his own affairs by being
halted at the gate of a building which was more imposing, both in size
and appearance, than the houses around it. Entering at the bidding of
his conductors, he found himself in an open court, and heard the heavy
door closed and bolted behind him.
Thereafter he was conducted to a small chamber, which, although
extremely simple, and almost devoid of furniture, was both cleaner and
lighter than that in which he and his comrades had been at first
immured. He observed, however, with a feeling of despondency, that it
was lighted only by small square holes in the roof, and that the door
was very substantial!
Here his conductor left him without saying a word and bolted the door.
As he listened to the retreating steps of his jailer echoing on the
marble pavement of the court, a feeling of profound dejection fell upon
our hero's spirit, and he experienced an almost irresistible tendency to
give way to unmanly tears. Shame, however, came to his aid and enabled
him to restrain them.
In one corner of the little room there was a piece of thick matting.
Sitting down on it with his back against the wall, the poor youth laid
his face in his hands and began to think and to pray. But the prayer
was not audible; and who can describe the wide range of thought--the
grief, the anxiety for comrades as well as for himself, the remorse, the
intense longing to recall the past, the wish that he might awake and
find that it was only a wild dream, and, above all, the bitter--almost
vengeful--self-condemnation!
He was aroused from this condition by the entrance of a slave bearing a
round wooden tray, on which were a bowl of food and a jug of water.
Placing these before him, the slave retired without speaking, though he
bestowed a glance of curiosity on the "white infidel dog," before
closing the door.
Appetite had ever been a staunch friend to Miles Milton. It did not
fail him now. Soldier-life has usually the effect of making its
devotees acutely careful to take advantage of all opportunities! He set
to work on the bowlful of food with a will, and was not solicitous to
ascertain what it consisted of until it was safely washed down with a
draught from the jug. Being then too late to enter on an inquiry as to
its nature, he contented himself with a pleasing recollection that the
main body of the compost was rice, one of the constituents oil, and that
the whole was by no means bad. He also wished that there had been more
of it, and then resumed his previous--and only possible--amusement of
meditation.
Thinking, like fighting, is better done on a full stomach! He had
gradually thought himself into a more hopeful state of mind, when he was
again interrupted by the entrance of visitors--two armed men, and the
magnificent negro runner whom he had observed holding the Mahdi's horse.
One of the armed men carried a small bundle, which he deposited on the
ground, and then stood beside his companion. Both stood like sentinels
with drawn swords, ready, apparently, to obey the commands of the
runner.
Advancing to the captive, the latter, producing a key, unlocked and
removed his manacles. These he handed to one of the men, and, turning
again to Miles, said, to his great surprise, in English--
"Undress, and put on de t'ings in bundle."
We may here observe that up to this time Miles and his comrades in
adversity had worn, day and night, the garments in which they had been
captured. Our hero was not sorry, therefore, at the prospect of a
change. Untying the bundle to see what substitute was given for his
uniform, he found that it contained only a pair of loose cotton drawers
and a red fez.
"Is this all?" he asked, in surprise.
"All," answered the negro.
"And what if I refuse to undress?" asked Miles.
"Your clo'es will be tore off your back and you be bastinado!"
This was said so calmly, and the three grave, powerful men seemed so
thoroughly capable of performing the deed, that our hero wisely
submitted to the inevitable and took off his uniform, which one of the
guards gathered up piece by piece as it was removed. Then he pulled on
the drawers, which covered him from the waist to a little below the
knees. When he had put on the red fez he found himself clothed in
exactly the same costume as the runner, with the exception of a small
green tippet which barely covered the top of his shoulders, and seemed
to be worn rather as an ornament than a piece of clothing, though
perhaps it formed a slight protection from the sun.
In this cool costume they left him, carrying away his uniform, as if
more thoroughly to impress on him what uncommonly cool things they were
capable of doing in the hot regions of the Soudan!