THE ARAB'S WARNING.
For a little while the British officer and the British newspaper
correspondent could do nothing but stand off to look at each other, and
then embrace again as though it were hard to believe that it was not all
a dream.
The Arabs and negroes had drawn to one side, and the big savage was
wrathfully inspecting the body of the leopard.
"Come," said Melton, plucking Guy's arm, "we will find a quiet place
where we can talk in peace."
The crowd made way for them, but before they had taken half a dozen
steps the big Arab staggered forward and seized Guy by the hand.
"You brave man," he cried. "Makar never forget."
He kept on with many protestations of gratitude until Guy tried to
withdraw in embarrassment.
"Wait," said the Arab. "Come along. Me tell you something."
He fairly dragged Guy back to the entrance of the tent where none could
hear, and bending low he whispered in his ear:
"Berbera no place for Inglis man this day. Better go away, quick. Heed
what Makar tell you. Now go."
He fairly pushed Guy from him, and the latter, joining Melton, who had
witnessed the scene with the greatest curiosity, led the way out into
the street.
A curious crowd followed them closely for some distance, and not a word
was spoken until they had turned off into a side avenue lined with low
mud buildings.
"Now," said Melton quickly, "I need not tell you, my dear fellow, what a
pleasant surprise this meeting has been, but all explanation must be
deferred to a more suitable time. You have made a friend and an enemy
today, for Makar Makalo is the most powerful Arab in the whole Somali
country, while that big negro is Oko Sain, the head chief of all the
Gallas who dwell two hundred miles back from the coast. What did Makar
tell you?"
Guy repeated the Arab's warning, and Melton stood for a moment in deep
thought.
"I suspected as much," he said finally. "Never before have there been so
many Arabs and Somalis from the interior at Berbera. Only yesterday a
caravan of two thousand camels arrived from Harar in the Galla country.
Something is wrong, I have felt certain, and now Makar confirms my
fears."
A glimmering suspicion of the truth flashed over Guy's mind at this
juncture, but he hesitated to speak.
"Now then," continued Melton, "this can mean nothing but a massacre. The
only soldiers in the place are about sixty of the Bombay infantry, who
were sent down here from Zaila, and as for the fortifications, they are
nothing but a few mud walls. There they lie yonder," and he pointed to
an English flag floating over the house-tops some distance away.
"We are only wasting time here," he added. "We'll look about a little
and then I'll decide what to do. I don't want to raise any false alarm."
They turned back to the main avenue. The crowds still surged up and
down, and the tumult seemed as harsh and discordant as ever, but the
place had nevertheless undergone a change since they had left it a short
time before. Little bartering was going on, and but few Arabs and
Somalis were to be seen. Those on the street were mostly harmless
traders from Aden and Cairo.
"What has become of all the Arabs?" asked Guy.
"That is just what I want to know," said Melton; "I'll soon find out,
though. Walk as fast as you can now, Chutney, and look as unconcerned as
possible."
Melton led the way down the street for a little distance, and, turning
into a side passage, soon stopped before a low, one-story building.
A dark-skinned fellow clad in ordinary Egyptian costume stood in the
doorway, and with a cry of surprise Guy recognized Mombagolo, Forbes'
trusty savage servant, who did much good service for them when they were
in Burma together.
Their greeting was brief and hasty.
"I have work for you, Momba," said Melton. "Something is going on in the
town, I don't know just what. You can go anywhere without being
suspected. Find out what you can, and then come down to the wharf. Don't
return here."
The man hastened away at once, and then Guy and Melton started for the
shore.
"I won't give any alarm at the garrison," said Forbes, as they hurried
along. "I'll wait till Momba reports. I don't suppose anything is
contemplated before nightfall at the earliest, and, as the troops are
scattered, it would only precipitate matters if I should have them
called in."
The last bale of goods was being unloaded from the steamer when they
reached the wharf. The captain and officers were smoking cigars against
the rail, and catching sight of Guy, the former called out:
"Don't forget now. Six o'clock sharp."
Guy nodded, and followed Melton to one side, where the two sat down on a
bale of cotton. Melton briefly explained how he came to be at Berbera.
After his return from Burma, he had been dispatched as war
correspondent of the London _Post_ to Suakim, which town was at that
time threatened by the Mahdi.
Mombagolo, or Momba as Melton now called him, had become his faithful
servant, and a week ago, the war-scare at Suakim having subsided, Melton
had come to Berbera to write up the great fair for his paper.
Then Guy, in his turn, simply stated that he had stopped off on his way
to India to execute a commission at Zaila. He made no reference to the
dispatches, feeling doubtful whether it would be proper or not, for a
government secret is a thing of weighty importance.
The conversation drifted to their perilous adventures in Burma, and the
time passed on unheeded.
At last Melton glanced up.
"Do you observe how quiet it is?" he exclaimed. "And look! There are but
few people in sight."
It was indeed quiet. A dead, oppressive calm had settled on the sea; not
a breeze rustled, not a ripple broke the glassy surface of the water,
and from the town, instead of the loud babel of cries, came only a low
murmur like a distant waterfall. A strange calm indeed, the calm that
serves as precursor to the unseen storm.
Suddenly, with startling abruptness, a rifle-shot broke the silence with
its shuddering echoes. Guy and Melton sprang to their feet. The
officers on the steamer crowded to the rail, up in the town dark figures
ran to and fro, a soldier in bright uniform was seen speeding toward the
garrison, and now plunging madly toward the wharf came a white clad
figure, pursued by a howling group of Somali warriors, who brandished
long spears and daggers. A shot from Melton's pistol brought them to a
sudden halt, and Momba, for it was indeed he, ran a few paces and fell
breathless at his master's feet.
"What fiendishness is this?" shouted the captain furiously, from the
deck of the steamer.
Momba staggered to his knees.
"The Arabs!" he cried. "They are coming--they have rifles--the
Portuguese--he broke open long boxes--and handed out guns--Makar's men
all have them--the Somalis have them--they have plenty shells--"
Guy ground his teeth.
"The infernal scoundrel!" he cried. "So that's what those long boxes of
his contained!"
"You mean Torres?" exclaimed Melton. "I know the villain. He is a
partner of Makar Makalo's. But come. We must fight our way to the
garrison."
Alas! too late! Bang--bang, bang--bang, a fusillade of rifle-fire rang
out from the town, hideous yells of triumph mingled with cries of
despair and agony, and over the garrison walls floated a constantly
increasing cloud of white smoke. The firing deepened, and a hoarse yell
arose as the English flag, shot from its staff, fluttered down into the
curling smoke.
"They are murdering the garrison!" cried Melton.
He grasped a revolver in each hand, and would have gone madly forward,
but at that moment a louder tumult burst forth close at hand, and
swarming down the crooked street, curving in and out through the tents
and heaped-up stalls, came a fierce and frantic horde of Arabs and
Somalis, waving rifles and spears, and yelling like ten thousand fiends.
"On board for your lives!" shouted the captain, and as Guy and Melton
dashed over the gang-plank, followed by Momba, a kick from the captain
sent it whirling down into the water.
Providentially steam was up, slowly the engines started, the screw
revolved, and just as the steamer moved lazily out into the harbor, the
enraged mob swept to the very edge of the wharf. In futile rage they let
fly showers of spears and a scattering rifle-fire that pierced and
shattered the woodwork of the vessel, but fortunately without effect,
for every man had got safely below.