Led into Captivity.
We turn once more to the Nubian desert, where, it will be remembered, we left several of our friends, cut off from McNeill’s zereba at a critical moment when they were all but overwhelmed by a host of foes.
The grand-looking Arab who had so opportunely appeared on the scene and arrested the spears which were about to finish the career of Jack Molloy was no other than the man who had been saved by Miles from the bullet of his comrade Rattling Bill. A kind act had in this case received its appropriate reward, for a brief though slight glance, and a gracious inclination of the Arab’s head, convinced our hero that the whole party owed their lives to this man’s gratitude.
They were not however exempt from indignity, for at the moment when Jack Molloy fell they were overwhelmed by numbers, their arms were wrenched from their grasp, and their hands were bound behind their backs. Thus they were led, the reverse of gently, into the thick bush by a strong party of natives, while the others, headed by the black-bearded chief, continued their attack on the zereba.
It soon became evident that the men who had charge of the prisoners did not share, or sympathise with, the feelings of the chief who had spared their lives, for they not only forced them to hurry forward as fast as they could go, but gave them occasional pricks with their spear-points when any of them chanced to trip or stumble. One of the warriors in particular—a fiery man—sometimes struck them with the shaft of his spear and otherwise maltreated them. It may be easily understood that men with unbroken spirits and high courage did not submit to this treatment with a good grace!
Miles was the first to be tested in this way. On reaching a piece of broken ground his foot caught in something and he stumbled forward. His hands being bound behind him he could not protect his head, and the result was that he plunged into a prickly shrub, out of which he arose with flushed and bleeding countenance. This was bad enough, but when the fiery Arab brought a lance down heavily on his shoulders his temper gave way, and he rushed at the man in a towering rage, striving at the same time, with intense violence, to burst his bonds. Of course he failed, and was rewarded by a blow on the head, which for a moment or two stunned him.
Seeing this, Armstrong’s power of restraint gave way, and he sprang to the rescue of his friend, but only to meet the same fate at the hands of the fiery Arab.
Stunned and bleeding, though not subdued, they were compelled to move on again at the head of the party—spurred on now and then by a touch from the point of the fiery man’s lance. Indeed it seemed as if this man’s passionate nature would induce him ere long to risk his chief’s wrath by disobeying orders and stabbing the prisoners!
Stevenson, the marine, was the next to suffer, for his foot slipped on a stone, and he fell with such violence as to be unable to rise for a few minutes. Impatient of the delay, the fiery man struck him so savagely with the spear-shaft that even his own comrades remonstrated.
“If I could only burst this cord!” growled Simkin between his teeth, “I’d—”
He stopped, for he felt that it was unmanly, as well as idle, to boast in the circumstances.
“We must have patience, comrade,” said Stevenson, as he rose pale and bloodstained from the ground. “Our Great Captain sometimes gives us the order to submit and suffer and—”
A prick in the fleshy part of his thigh caused him to stop abruptly.
At this point the endurance of Jack Molloy failed him, and he also “went in” for violent action! But Jack was a genius as well as a sailor, and profited by the failures of his comrades. Instead of making futile efforts to break his bonds like them, he lowered his hairy head, and, with a howl and a tremendous rush, like a fish-torpedo, launched himself, or, as it were, took “a header,” into the fiery man!
“No fellow,” as Jack himself afterwards remarked, “could receive fifteen stone ten into his bread-basket and go on smiling!” On the contrary, he went down like a nine-pin, and remained where he fell, for his comrades—who evidently did not love him—merely laughed and went on their way, leaving him to revive at his leisure.
The prisoners advanced somewhat more cheerfully after this event, for, besides being freed from pricks of the spear-point, there was that feeling of elation which usually arises in every well-balanced mind from the sight of demerit meeting with its appropriate reward.
The region over which they were thus led, or driven, was rather more varied than the level country behind them, and towards evening it changed still further, becoming more decidedly hill-country. At night the party found themselves in the neighbourhood of one of the all-important wells of the land, beside which they encamped under a small tree.
Here the prisoners were allowed to sit down on the ground, with one man to guard them, while the others kindled a fire and otherwise arranged the encampment.
Supper—consisting of a small quantity of boiled corn and dried flesh—was given to the prisoners, whose hands were set free, though their elbows were loosely lashed together, and their feet tied to prevent their escape. No such idea, however, entered into the heads of any of them, for they were by that time in the heart of an unknown range of hills, in a country which swarmed with foes, besides which, they would not have known in what direction to fly had they been free to do so; they possessed neither arms, ammunition, nor provisions, and were at the time greatly exhausted by their forced march.
Perhaps Jack Molloy was the only man of the unfortunate party who at that moment retained either the wish or the power to make a dash for freedom. But then Jack was an eccentric and exceptional man in every respect. Nothing could quell his spirit, and it was all but impossible to subdue his body. He was what we may term a composite character. His frame was a mixture of gutta-percha, leather, and brass. His brain was a compound of vivid fancy and slow perception. His heart was a union of highly inflammable oil and deeply impressible butter, with something remarkably tough in the centre of it. Had he been a Red Indian he would have been a chief. If born a nigger he would have been a king. In the tenth century he might have been a Sea-king or something similar. Born as he was in the nineteenth century, he was only a Jack-tar and a hero!
It is safe to conclude that if Molloy had been set free that evening with a cutlass in his hand he would—after supper of course—have attacked single-handed the united band of forty Arabs, killed at least ten of them, and left the remaining thirty to mourn over their mangled bodies and the loss of numerous thumbs and noses, to say nothing of other wounds and bruises.
Luckily for his comrades he was not free that night.
“Boys,” said he, after finishing his scanty meal, and resting on an elbow as he looked contemplatively up at the stars which were beginning to twinkle in the darkening sky, “it do seem to me, now that I’ve had time to think over it quietly, that our only chance o’ gittin’ out o’ this here scrape is to keep quiet, an’ pretend that we’re uncommon fond of our dear Arab friends, till we throws ’em off their guard, an’ then, some fine night, give ’em the slip an’ make sail across the desert for Suakim.”
“No doubt you’re right,” answered Miles, with a sigh, for, being tired and sleepy just then, he was not nearly as sanguine as the seaman, “but I have not much hope of gaining their confidence—especially after your acting the thunderbolt so effectively on one of them.”
“Why, man alive! they won’t mind that. It was all in the way of fair fight,” said Molloy; “an’ the rascal was no favourite, I could see that.”
“It’s a wonder to me you could see anything at all after such a ram!” remarked Moses Pyne, with a yawn, as he lay back and rested his head on a tuft of grass. “The shock seemed to me fit to sink an iron-clad.”
“But why pretend to be fond of the Arabs?” asked Stevenson. “Don’t you think it would be sufficient that we should obey orders quietly without any humbug or pretence at all about it, till a chance to escape shall come in our way?”
“Don’t you think, Stevenson,” said Miles, “that there’s a certain amount of humbug and pretence even in quiet obedience to orders, when such obedience is not the result of submission, but of a desire to throw people off their guard?”
“But my obedience is the result of submission,” returned the marine stoutly. “I do really submit—first, because it is God’s will, for I cannot help it; second, because it is the only course that will enable me to escape bad treatment; third, because I wish to gain the good-will of the men who have me in their power whether I escape or not; and, fourth—”
“Hallo! old man, how many heads are you goin’ to give us in that there sermon?” asked Moses.
“This is the last head, Moses, and you needn’t be anxious, for I ain’t going to enlarge on any of ’em. My fourth reason is, that by doing as common-sense bids me, our foes will be brought thereby to that state of mind which will be favourable to everything—our escape included—and I can’t help that, you know. It ain’t my fault if they become trustful, is it?”
“No, nor it ain’t no part o’ your dooty to spoil their trustfulness by failin’ to take advantage of it,” said Molloy, with a grin; “but it do seem to me, Stevenson............