IN THE HANDS OF THE PHILISTINES
The feeling of terror passed off as quickly as it had come. As the
light spread luridly over the dismal room it exposed to our hero's
gaze the unmistakable signs that the place was to be used for the
administration of tortures. Instruments and tools of all sorts lay
about in every direction, bottles were stored on a shelf in one
corner, whether containing medical material, or stuff of a more
deadly nature, George had no means of discovering. In another corner
of the dungeon stood a brick forge, with various irons scattered
about on it, which were doubtless used for branding purposes. His
attention was drawn to a pile of manacles and chains, amongst which
he detected iron collars, anklets, iron bars of enormous weight, all
cruel-looking and of dreadful portent.
In one wall was placed a series of rings with ropes attached, while
close by lay a heavy thonged lash; the nature of these things left
him in no doubt concerning their use.
As his eyes rested on them in turn, George again felt the terror
coming on him; involuntarily he trembled, and it was only by a
supreme effort he was able to cast it from him. The tension of his
feeling was so great that to relieve it he turned to his gaoler.
"But why am I brought here? They cannot torture a prisoner of war!"
he exclaimed. "But perhaps," as an idea struck him, "they intend to
frighten me."
The gaoler guffawed in a sepulchral manner at what he considered his
prisoner's simplicity; he did not understand that George was trying
to convince himself against his own better judgment.
"Frighten, eh?" he said at last, when his gruesome merriment had
ceased, "they'll not waste their time in trying to frighten a
Christian dog! These things are not for show, but use. Since the
white people came to this country, this place," he went on, with a
comprehensive sweep of his hands, "has not been used, but kept more
as a curiosity than anything else; now the Egyptians again rule,
they will once more adopt the methods of our forefathers."
"Oh, yes," replied George, with growing irritation at the man's
undisguised hatred for the white people in general, and himself in
particular, "I know all about the _mighty_ Egyptians and their
forefathers. I've heard all about that before, but it has nothing to
do with bringing me down here. What I want to know is, why I'm
brought here."
At the sneering tone George used when speaking of the Egyptians the
expression of the gaoler's face lowered and his eyes shot fire, and
as he ceased speaking the man turned away, and busied himself with
setting a great arm-chair in position in the centre of the room.
"You know a great deal about Egypt besides," he said in slow,
measured tones, wiping cobwebs from a cumbersome piece of furniture,
"and that is the reason you are brought here. Those who will not
speak must be made to speak."
"I am ready to tell them all I know, and I can assure you it isn't
much."
"About the British troops and their Commander's plans?" asked the
man, with a stolid look of surprise.
Helmar burst out into a laugh, although he felt anything but like
doing so.
"Why, man, how should I know anything about it--I am not an
officer!"
The gaoler smiled grimly. He had expected this, and refrained from
comment, contenting himself with shrugging his shoulders in an
approved Eastern style.
Seeing that nothing further was to be gained from this unintelligent
pig, Helmar gave up the attempt, and examined more closely the
instruments of torture, wondering in a hopeless sort of way what was
to be his fate. Unable to come to any decision, he flung himself
into the chair his gaoler had set in the centre of the room, a prey
to a horrible despair.
He had hardly seated himself when he became aware of the sound of
approaching footsteps. They did not come from the passage by which
he had entered, but from the opposite side of the room. At that
moment the gaoler approached, and, seizing him roughly by the
shoulder, attempted to hustle him from his seat.
"This is for another; we will find something less comfortable for
you."
Helmar detested being pushed about, and as he expected to be handled
badly later on, he determined to put up with none of it now. He
sprang in a bound from his seat and, turning, dealt the great
Egyptian a smashing blow on the face, and was about to follow it up
with another, when a door, which he had not seen, suddenly opened,
and a procession of dusky figures entered. Instantly two of the
new-comers sprang forward and, before George could continue his
chastisement, had him securely pinioned, his flashing eyes
indicating the storm of rage that was going on within him.
Realizing that now, if ever, he must be calm, he stifled back his
feelings, and waited for the next act in the horrible drama. Six men
had entered, and one of them seated himself at once in the arm-chair
George had vacated. He was a powerful, thick-set fellow and
evidently, by the deference the others paid him, a man of
considerable importance. His expression was one of fixed malignity,
and George rightly surmised that he need look for no mercy from this
individual. He wondered who and what he was. Was he a magistrate, or
some potentate of Arabi's army? He did not give him the idea of
being a military man. His costume was decidedly that of the native
civilian, and yet there was an air of stern command about the man
that puzzled him.
At a sign from the new-comer, the two men who held him proceeded to
divest Helmar of his coat and shirt. This done, his hands and feet
were fastened, and he was then thrown on the floor face downwards,
while the bigger of his two custodians stood by, handling the deadly
kourbash.
There was no mistaking their vile intentions; he was to be
interrogated with a vengeance, and George eyed the cruel thong as it
lay idly resting on the ground beside the great Arab. The horrors it
conjured up in his mind were too appalling for words. Already in
fancy he could feel its relentless blows on his bared back, and he
shuddered again and again. He shut his teeth and, to use his own
phraseology, determined to "die hard." He would show these inhuman
monsters that a white man could stand without a sign anything they
could think of to reduce him to submission. In bitterness he felt
that this mockery of interrogation was only an excuse to vent their
hatred of the European, and that in reality they did not hope to
discover anything from him, and, in fact, knew that he had no
information to give.
The dreaded kourbash, he was determined, should do its fell work
with no response from him, terrible as he knew that punishment would
be; they might kill him, they might flay him alive, but they could
not reduce his stubborn pride as no doubt they hoped to do. This
spirit bore him through those few moments that preceded the first
words of his mock interrogation, but he felt himself shrink on the
floor when he saw the slightest movement on the part of his
executioner. The torture of that short period was the refinement of
cruelty, but never for one moment did he waver from his fixed
determination to face his inquisitors like a man and a son of his
fatherland.
At last the man in the chair spoke; his tones were calm and
dispassionate, but there rang in them an undercurrent of intensity
that warned George, whose mental faculties were painfully acute,
that the latent feeling of racial hatred was only held in check by
the power of an iron will, and that like a boiling volcano it
needed but the faintest extra aggravation to make it burst forth and
overwhelm its surroundings. The man's words fell on his ears like
the knell of doom, and ere he replied he braced himself for the
inevitable result of his answer.
"Being a secret agent of the British, you possess information that
will be of use to the great Pasha now ruling the land of the
faithful!"
Though the words were an assertion, the tones in which they were
delivered were undoubtedly those of a question. While yet
considering his reply, George saw out of the corner of his eye the
fearful kourbash raised from the ground. Quickly making up his mind
that no subterfuge would hold him, Helmar replied--
"I am not a secret agent, neither do I possess any information
whatsoever of the British movements. How should I? Have I not been a
captive ever since Arabi was expelled from Alexandria?"
Notwithstanding the fearful position in which he stood, George could
not resist this little bit of sarcasm at the expense of Arabi's
prowess. Apparently his interrogator had no sense of humour, for
although Helmar could not see the man he was convinced that he gave
some sign. There was a horrid swish in the air, and the kourbash
fell across his bare shoulders with ruthless force, and a great wale
was raised where it struck. George uttered no sound, but, bursting
with indignation and in great pain, waited for the next question.
It came quickly, and in the same even tones.
"Your retort is untimely, and will bring retribution upon you. The
faithful require no comments from the Christian dog. Answer the
questions put to you, simply, that your punishment may be less
severe. We would mercifully save you more pain than is necessary. It
is known that you are aware of the point at which the forces of the
great Pasha are to be attacked. The English dogs are slow, but they
are cunning. Where will their men-of-war be concentrated?"
"How can I tell you that--I don't know," replied Helmar irritably.
The last words were scarcely out his mouth when the kourbash again
fell with terrific force on his flesh, this time twice in rapid
succession. The pain was intense, and as each blow fell George
hollowed his back involuntarily as if by doing so he would lessen
the force of the dreaded thong. His back was scalding, and the sting
of the cruel lash pervaded his whole body, but he only shut his
teeth the harder and waited for what next was to come.
"Where will the concentration take place?"
The words came like the knell of doom, the monotony of their tone
was appalling.
"I do not know," replied George again.
Again the lash fell, with another cut added--again he writhed in
pain, pain that was anguish of mind as well as of body. He felt as
if his brain was bursting with the dreadful slowness of the
proceedings. It seemed to him that if he were to receive a hundred
lashes in quick succession he could easily stand it, but the torture
of the delay was fearful.
Again the fiendish inquisitor asked his question, and again our hero
replied in the negative. Four more frightful cuts of the inexorable
kourbash fell on his rapidly-scarring back. The torture he endured
was frightful, not a single blow from the raw-hide thong but was
timed to produce the utmost effect; his back was waled in large
ridges, and with a fiendish cruelty the inhuman executioner with
unfailing aim had smote and re-smote him in the same place. Already
he could feel that the skin had burst, and it came almost as a
relief as he felt the flow of blood down his back. Again and again
the malignant man in the chair asked his question. Again and again
the answer came from our hero, followed quickly by the increased
number of lashes from his executioner.
The terrible punishment was beginning to tell; already George had
passed from the defiant stage to one of patient endurance. As the
torture continued his body began to feel numbed, and he became
light-headed; he caught himself counting in a foolish manner the
number of strokes he had received, and as each one fell, he would
add two or three according to whether he felt it more or less than
its predecessor. Once he even laughed as the man struck him on a
part of his body that was clothed, with the effect that the
executioner, enraged at the levity, redoubled his merciless attack.
The light-headed stage passed off and was replaced by a feeling of
horrible despair. He wondered when these monsters would have vented
their spite sufficiently; he wondered if he would be alive at the
end of the castigation, or if they would flay the flesh from his
body. He thought of the ignominious ending it would be to his brief
career with the fighting line.
[Illustration: "He was already beyond crying out. All sense of feeling
had left him!" p. 270.]
(Transcriber's note: Illustration not available.)
His head was buried in his arms, and he was becoming indifferent to
how frequently the kourbash fell on his shoulders. Had he but known
it, it was the beginning of unconsciousness; he uttered no sound, he
cared nothing for what was going on; he no longer, as the blows were
rained on him, shut his teeth to bear the pain--it was not
necessary, he was already beyond crying out. All sense of feeling
had left him.
Now and again he could hear, as if a long way off, the voice of the
inquisitor repeating his question, but it had no meaning for him,
the words were blurred and indistinct to his mental faculties, and
he made no attempt to answer.
Presently the blows ceased to fall; his body lost all feeling as his
legs became cramped, and he fell into unconsciousness. Suddenly he
was aroused from his torpor by angry voices. Far away they sounded,
but still they penetrated to his dulled and aching brain. He could
hear a high-pitched, shrill, screaming sound that struck on his
almost senseless nerves with a shock.
Vaguely he became aware that his flogging had ceased, and that
something had gone wrong with his persecutors.
With a supreme effort he roused himself, but he was too weak and
feeble to be able to grasp the meaning of what he heard, and quickly
sank down to full length again, as he felt a warm touch on his
hands.