After the rough treatment he had received, the Mahdi, as we may well
believe, did not feel more amiably disposed towards his prisoners.
Of course he had no reason for blaming Miles for what had occurred,
nevertheless he vented his wrath against white men in general on him, by
keeping him constantly on the move, and enforcing prolonged and unusual
speed while running, besides subjecting him publicly to many insults.
It was a strange school in which to learn self-restraint and humility.
But our hero profited by the schooling. Necessity is a stern teacher,
and she was the head-mistress of that school. Among other things she
taught Miles to reason extensively--not very profoundly, perhaps, nor
always correctly, but at all events in a way that he never reasoned
before. The best way to convey to the reader the state of his mind will
be to let him speak for himself. As he had a habit of thinking aloud--
for sociability, as it were--in the dark cell to which he had been
relegated, we have only to bend down our ear and listen.
One night, about a week after the overthrow of his tyrant master, Miles
was seated on the hard floor of his cell, leaning against the wall, with
his knees drawn up and his face in his hands--his usual attitude when
engaged in meditation after a hard day's work.
"I wouldn't mind so much," he murmured, "if I only saw the faintest
prospect of its coming to an end, but to go on thus from day to day,
perhaps year to year, is terrible. No, that cannot be; if we cannot
escape it won't be long till the end comes. (A pause.) The end!--the
end of a rope with a noose on it is likely to be _my_ end, unless I
burst up and run a-muck. No, no, Miles Milton, don't you think of that!
What good would it do to kill half-a-dozen Arabs to accompany you into
the next world? The poor wretches are only defending their country
after all. (Another pause.) Besides, you deserve what you've got for
so meanly forsaking your poor mother; think o' that, Miles, when you
feel tempted to stick your lance into the Mahdi's gizzard, as Molloy
would have said. Ah! poor Molloy! I fear that I shall never see you
again in this life. After giving the Mahdi and his steed such a
tremendous heave they would be sure to kill you; perhaps they tortured
you to--"
He stopped at this point with an involuntary shudder.
"I hope not," he resumed, after another pause. "I hope we may yet meet
and devise some means of escape. God grant it! True, the desert is
vast and scorching and almost waterless--I may as well say foodless too!
And it swarms with foes, but what then? Have not most of the great
deeds of earth, been accomplished in the face of what seemed
insurmountable difficulties? Besides--"
He paused again here, and for a longer time, because there came suddenly
into his mind words that had been spoken to him long ago by his mother:
"With God _all things_ are possible."
"Yes, Miles," he continued, "you must make up your mind to restrain your
anger and indignation, because it is useless to give vent to them.
That's but a low motive after all. Is it worthy of an intelligent man?
I get a slap in the face, and bear it patiently, because I can't help
myself. I get the same slap in the face in circumstances where I _can_
help myself, and I resent it fiercely. Humble when I _must_ be so;
fierce when I've got the power. Is not this unmanly--childish--humbug?
There is no principle here. Principle! I do believe I never had any
principle in me worthy of the name. I have been drifting, up to this
time, before the winds of caprice and selfish inclination. (A long
pause here.) Well, it just comes to this, that whatever happens I must
submit with a good grace--at least, as good grace as I can--and hope
that an opportunity to escape may occur before long. I have made up my
mind to do it--and when I once make up my mind, I--"
He paused once more at this point, and the pause was so long that he
turned it into a full stop by laying his head on the block of wood which
formed his pillow and going to sleep.
It will be seen from the above candid remarks that our hero was not
quite as confident of his power of will as he used to be,--also, that he
was learning a few useful facts in the school of adversity.
One evening, after a harder day than usual, Miles was conducted to the
prison in which he and his companions had been confined on the day of
their arrival.
Looking round the cell, he observed, on becoming accustomed to the dim
light, that only one other prisoner was there. He was lying on the bare
ground in a corner, coiled up like a dog, and with his face to the wall.
Relieved to find that he was not to be altogether alone, Miles sat down
with his back against the opposite wall, and awaited the waking of his
companion with some interest, for although his face was not visible, and
his body was clothed in a sort of sacking, his neck and lower limbs
showed that he was a white man. But the sleeper did not seem inclined
to waken just then. On the contrary, he began, ere long, to snore
heavily.
Miles gradually fell into a train of thought that seemed to bring back
reminiscences of a vague, indefinable sort. Then he suddenly became
aware that the snore of the snorer was not unfamiliar. He was on the
point of rising to investigate this when the sleeper awoke with a start,
sat bolt upright with a look of owlish gravity, and presented the
features of Jack Molloy.
"Miles, my lad!" cried Jack, springing up to greet his friend warmly, "I
thought you was dead."
"And, Jack, my dear friend," returned Miles, "I thought--at least I
feared--that you must have been tortured to death."
"An' you wasn't far wrong, my boy. Stand close to me, and look me
straight in the eyes. D'ee think I'm any taller?"
"Not much--at least, not to my perception. Why?"
"I wonder at that, now," said Molloy, "for I've bin hanged three times,
an' should have bin pulled out a bit by this time, considering my
weight."
His friend smiled incredulously.
"You may laugh, lad, but it's no laughin' matter," said Molloy, feeling
his neck tenderly. "The last time, I really thought it was all up wi'
me, for the knot somehow got agin my windpipe an' I was all but choked.
If they had kep' me up half a minute longer it would have bin all over:
I a'most wished they had, for though I never was much troubled wi' the
narves, I'm beginnin' now to have a little fellow-feelin' for the
sufferin's o' the narvish."
"Do you really mean, my dear fellow, that the monsters have been
torturing you in this way?" asked Miles, with looks of sympathy.
"Ay, John Miles, that's just what I does mean," returned the seaman,
with an anxious and startled look at the door, on the other side of
which a slight noise was heard at the moment. "They've half-hanged me
three times already. The last time was only yesterday, an' at any
moment they may come to give me another turn. It's the uncertainty o'
the thing that tries my narves. I used to boast that I hadn't got none
once, but the Arabs know how to take the boastin' out of a fellow. If
they'd only take me out to be hanged right off an' done with it, I
wouldn't mind it so much, but it's the constant tenter-hooks of
uncertainty that floors me. Hows'ever, I ain't quite floored yet. But
let's hear about yourself, Miles. Come, sit down. I gets tired sooner
than I used to do since they took to hangin' me. How have they bin
sarvin' you out since I last saw ye?"
"Not near so badly as they have been serving you, old boy," said Miles,
as he sat down and began to detail his own experiences.
"But tell me," he added, "have you heard anything of our unfortunate
comrades since we parted?"
"Nothing--at least nothing that I can trust to. I did hear that poor
Moses Pyne is dead; that they had treated him the same as me, and that
his narves couldn't stand it; that he broke down under the strain an'
died. But I don't believe it. Not that these Arabs wouldn't kill him
that way, but the interpreter who told me has got falsehood so plainly
writ in his ugly face that I would fain hope our kind-hearted friend is
yet alive."
"God grant it may be so!" said Miles fervently. "And I scarcely think
that even the cruellest of men would persevere in torturing such a
gentle fellow as Moses."
"May-hap you're right," returned Molloy; "anyhow, we'll take what
comfort we can out o' the hope. Talkin' o' comfort, what d'ee think has
bin comfortin' me in a most wonderful way? You'll never guess."
"What is it, then?"
"One o' them little books as Miss Robinson writes, and gives to soldiers
and sailors--`The Victory' it's called, havin' a good deal in it about
Nelson's flagship and Nelson himself; but there's a deal more than that
in it--words that has gone straight to my heart, and made me see God's
love in Christ as I never saw it before. Our comrade Stevenson gave it
to me before we was nabbed by the Arabs, an' I've kep' it in the linin'
o' my straw hat ever since. You see it's a thin little thing--though
there's oceans o' truth in it--an' it's easy stowed away.
"I forgot all about it till I was left alone in this place, and then I
got it out, an' God in his marcy made it like a light in the dark to me.
"Stevenson came by it in a strange way. He told me he was goin' over a
battle-field after a scrimmage near Suakim, lookin' out for the wounded,
when he noticed somethin' clasped in a dead man's hand. The hand
gripped it tight, as if unwillin' to part with it, an' when Stevenson
got it he found that it was this little book, `The Victory.' Here it
is. I wouldn't change it for a golden sov, to every page."
As he spoke, footsteps were heard approaching the door. With a startled
air Molloy thrust the book into its place and sprang up.
"See there, now!" he said remonstratively, "who'd ever ha' thowt that
I'd come to jerk about like that?"
Before the door opened, however, the momentary weakness had passed away,
and our seaman stood upright, with stern brow and compressed lips,
presenting to those who entered as firm and self-possessed a man of
courage as one could wish to see.
"I knowed it!" he said in a quiet voice to his friend, as two strong
armed men advanced and seized him, while two with drawn swords stood
behind him. At the same time, two others stood guard over Miles.
"They're goin' to give me another turn. God grant that it may be the
last!"
"Yes--de last. You be surely dead dis time," said the interpreter, with
a malignant smile.
"If _you_ hadn't said it, I would have had some hope that the end was
come!" said Molloy, as they put a rope round his neck and led him away.
"Good-bye, Miles," he added, looking over his shoulder; "if I never come
back, an' you ever gets home again, give my kind regards to Miss
Robinson--God bless her!"
Next moment the door closed, and Miles was left alone.
It is impossible to describe the state of mind in which our hero paced
his cell during the next hour. The intense pity, mingled with anxiety
and fierce indignation, that burned in his bosom were almost unbearable.
"Oh!" he thought, "if I were only once more free, for one moment, with
a weapon in my hand, I'd--"
He wisely checked himself in the train of useless thought at this point.
Then he sat down on the floor, covered his face with his hands, and
tried to pray, but could not. Starting up, he again paced wildly about
the cell like a caged tiger. After what seemed to him an age he heard
footsteps in the outer court. The door opened, and the sailor was
thrust in. Staggering forward a step or two, he was on the point of
falling when Miles caught him in his arms, and let him sink gently on
the ground, and, sitting down beside him, laid his head upon his knee.
From the inflamed red mark which encircled the seaman's powerful neck,
it was obvious enough that the cruel monsters had again put him to the
tremendous mental agony of supposing that his last hour had come.
"Help me up, lad, and set my back agin the wall," he said, in a low
voice.
As Miles complied, one or two tears that would not be repressed fell
from his eyes on the sailor's cheek.
"You're a good fellow," said Molloy, looking up. "I thank the Lord for
sendin' you to comfort me, and I _do_ need comfort a bit just now, d'ee
know. There--I'm better a'ready, an' I'll be upside wi' them next time,
for I feels, somehow, that I couldn't stand another turn. Poor Moses!
I do hope that the interpreter is the liar he looks, and that they
haven't treated the poor fellow to this sort o' thing."
Even while he spoke, the door of the cell again opened and armed men
entered.
"Ay, here you are," cried the sailor, rising quickly and attempting to
draw himself up and show a bold front. "Come away an' welcome. I'm
ready for 'ee."
But the men had not come for Molloy. They wanted Miles, over whom there
came a sudden and dreadful feeling of horror, as he thought they were
perhaps going to subject him to the same ordeal as his friend.
"Keep up heart, lad, and trust in the Lord," said the sailor, in an
encouraging tone as they led our hero away.
The words were fitly spoken, and went far to restore to the poor youth
the courage that for a moment had forsaken him. As he emerged into the
bright light, which dazzled him after the darkness of his prison-house,
he thought of the Sun of Righteousness, and of the dear mother who had
sought so earnestly to lead him to God in his boyhood.
One thing that greatly encouraged him was the fact that no rope had been
put round his neck, as had been done to Molloy, and he also observed
that his guards did not treat him roughly. Moreover, they led him in
quite a different direction from the open place where he well knew that
criminals were executed. He glanced at the interpreter who marched
beside him, and thought for a moment of asking him what might be his
impending fate, but the man's look was so forbidding that he forbore to
speak.
Presently they stopped before a door, which was opened by a negro slave,
and the guards remained outside while Miles and the interpreter entered.
The court into which they were ushered was open to the sky, and
contained a fountain in the centre, with boxes of flowers and shrubs
around it. At the inner end of it stood a tall powerful Arab, leaning
on a curved sword.
Miles saw at a glance that he was the same man whose life he had saved,
and who had come so opportunely to the rescue of his friend Molloy. But
the Arab gave him no sign of recognition. On the contrary, the glance
which he bestowed on him was one of calm, stern indifference.
"Ask him," he said at once to the interpreter, "where are the Christian
dogs who were captured with him?"
"Tell him," replied Miles, when this was translated, "that I know
nothing about the fate of any of them except one."
"Which one is that?"
"The sailor," answered Miles.
"Where is he?"
"In the prison I have just left."
"And you know nothing about the others?"
"Nothing whatever."
The Arab seemed to ponder these replies for a few minutes. Then,
turning to the interpreter, he spoke in a tone that seemed to Miles to
imply the giving of some strict orders, after which, with a wave of his
hand, and a majestic inclination of the head, he dismissed them.
Although there was little in the interview to afford encouragement,
Miles nevertheless was rendered much more hopeful by it, all the more
that he observed a distinct difference in the bearing of the interpreter
towards him as they went out.
"Who is that?" he ventured to ask as he walked back to the prison.
"That is Mohammed, the Mahdi's cousin," answered the interpreter.
Miles was about to put some more questions when he was brought to a
sudden stand, and rendered for the moment speechless by the sight of
Moses Pyne--not bearing heavy burdens, or labouring in chains, as might
have been expected, but standing in a shallow recess or niche in the
wall of a house, busily engaged over a small brazier, cooking beans in
oil, and selling the same to the passers-by!
"What you see?" demanded the interpreter.
"I see an old friend and comrade. May I speak to him?" asked Miles,
eagerly.
"You may," answered the interpreter.
The surprise and joy of Moses when his friend slapped him on the
shoulder and saluted him by name is not easily described.
"I _am_ so glad to see you, old fellow!" he said, with sparkling eyes.
"I thought you must be dead, for I've tried so often to find out what
had become of you. Have some beans and oil?"
He dipped a huge ladleful out of the pot, as if he were going to
administer a dose on the spot.
"No, thank you, Moses, I'm a prisoner. These are my guards. I wonder
they have allowed me even to exchange a word with you. Must be quick.
They told us you had been half-hanged till you were frightened to
death."
"They told you lies, then. I've been very well treated, but what
troubles me is I can't find out where any of our comrades have gone to."
"I can tell only of one. Molloy is alive. I wish I could say he's
well. Of the others I'm as ignorant as yourself. But I've seen a
friend who--"
At this point he was interrupted by the interpreter and told to move on,
which he was fain to do with a cheery good-bye to Moses and a wave of
the hand.
Arrived at the prison, he found that Molloy had been removed to a more
comfortable room, into which he was also ushered, and there they were
left alone together.
"D'you feel better now, my poor fellow?" asked Miles, when the door was
shut.
"Better, bless you, yes! I feels far too well. They've given me a rare
blow-out of beans an' oil since you were taken off to be hanged, and I
feels so strong that the next turn off won't finish me! I could never
have eaten 'em, thinkin' of you, but, d'ee know, I was quite sure, from
the way they treated you as you went out, that it warn't to be hangin'
wi' you this time. An' when they putt me into this here room, an'
produced the beans an' oil, I began to feel quite easy in my mind about
you. It was the man that brought your marchin' orders that told 'em to
putt me here. D'ee know, lad, I can't help feelin' that a friend o'
some sort must have bin raised up to us."
"You're right, Jack, I have just seen the Arab whose life I saved, and
who saved yours! It's very strange, too, that beans and oil should have
been your fare to-day, for I have also seen Moses Pyne in the street,
not half-an-hour since, cooking and selling beans and oil!"
"You don't mean that?"
"Indeed I do. I've spoken to him."
Sitting down on a stool--for they were promoted to a furnished
apartment--Miles entered into an elaborate account of all that had
befallen him since the hour that he had been taken out, as they both
thought, to be hanged!