ADVENTURES AMONG THE SOUDANESE, AND STRANGE MEETING WITH THE MAHDI

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!