Blue Lights: Hot Work in the Soudan by R. M. Ballantyne (famous ebook reader .txt) 📖

“There is a tide in the affairs of men,” undoubtedly, and the tide in the affairs of Miles Milton and his comrades appeared to have reached low-water at this time, for, on the day mentioned in the last chapter, it began to turn, and continued for a considerable time to rise.

The first clear evidence of the change was the “blow-out” of beans and oil, coupled with the change of prison. The next was the sudden appearance of the beans-and-oil-man himself.

“Why, I do believe—it’s—it’s Moses,” exclaimed Molloy, as his old comrade entered the prison. “Give us your flipper. Man alive! but I’m right glad to see you. We thought you was—let’s have a look at your neck. No; nothing there. I knowed as that interpreter was a liar. But what brings you here, lad? What mischief have ’ee bin up to?”

“That’s what puzzles myself, Jack,” said Moses, shaking hands warmly with Miles. “I’ve done nothing that I know of except sell beans and oil. It’s true I burned ’em sometimes a bit, but they’d hardly put a fellow in jail for that—would they? However, I’m glad they’ve done it, whatever the reason, seeing that it has brought us three together again. But, I say,” continued Moses, while a look of anxiety came over his innocent face, “what can have become of our other comrades?”

“You may well ask that, lad. I’ve asked the same question of myself for many a day, but have never bin able to get from myself a satisfactory answer. I’m wery much afeared that we’ll never see ’em again.”

It seemed almost to be a spring-tide in the affairs of the trio at that time, for while the seaman was speaking—as if to rebuke his want of faith—the door opened and their comrade Armstrong walked in.

For a few moments they were all rendered speechless! Then Miles sprang up, seized his friend by both shoulders, and gazed into his face; it was a very thin and careworn face at that time, as if much of the bloom of youth had been wiped from it for ever.

“Willie! Am I dreaming?” exclaimed Miles.

“If you are, so must I be,” replied his friend, “for when I saw you last you had not taken to half-nakedness as a costume!”

“Come now,” retorted Miles, “you have not much to boast of in that way yourself.”

“There you are wrong, Miles, for I have to boast that I made my garment myself. True, it’s only a sack, but I cut the hole in the bottom of it for my head with my own hand, and stitched on the short sleeves with a packing-needle. But, I say, what’s been the matter with Molloy? Have they been working you too hard, Jack?”

“No, Willum, no, I can’t exactly say that, but they’ve bin hangin’ me too hard. I’ll tell ’ee all about it in coorse o’ time. Man alive! but they have took the flesh off your bones somehow; let’s see—no, your neck’s all right. Must have bin some other way.”

“The way was simple enough,” returned the other. “When they separated us all at first, they set me to the hardest work they could find—to dig, draw water, carry burdens that a horse might object to, sweep, and clean up; in fact, everything and anything, and they’ve kep’ us hard at it ever since. I say us, because Rattlin’ Bill Simkin was set to help me after the first day, an’ we’ve worked all along together. Poor Simkin, there ain’t much rattle in him now, except his bones. I don’t know why they sent me here and not him. And I can’t well make out whether I’m sent here for extra punishment or as a favour!”

“Have you seen or heard anything of Stevenson?” asked Moses.

“I saw him once, about a week ago, staggering under a great log—whether in connection with house-builders or not I can’t tell. It was only for a minute, and I got a tremendous cut across the back with a cane for merely trying to attract his attention.”

The tide, it will be seen, had been rising pretty fast that afternoon. It may be said to have come in with a rush, when, towards evening, the door of their prison once more opened and Simkin with Stevenson were ushered in together, both clothed alike in an extemporised sack-garment and short drawers, with this difference, that the one wore a species of felt hat, the other a fez.

They were still in the midst of delighted surprise at the turn events seemed to be taking, when two men entered bearing trays, on which were six smoking bowls of beans and oil!

“Hallo! Moses, your business follows you even to prison,” exclaimed Molloy.

“True, Jack, and I’ll follow my business up!” returned Moses, sitting down on the ground, which formed their convenient table, and going to work.

We need scarcely say that his comrades were not slow to follow his example.

The tide may be said to have reached at least half-flood, if not more, when, on the following morning, the captives were brought out and told by the interpreter that they were to accompany a body of troops which were about to quit the place under the command of Mohammed, the Mahdi’s cousin.

“Does the Mahdi accompany us?” Miles ventured to ask.

“No. The Mahdi has gone to Khartoum,” returned the interpreter, who then walked away as if he objected to be further questioned.

The hopes which had been recently raised in the breasts of the captives to a rather high pitch were, however, somewhat reduced when they found that their supposed friend Mohammed treated them with cool indifference, did not even recognise them, and the disappointment was deepened still more when all of them, except Miles, were loaded with heavy burdens, and made to march among the baggage-animals as if they were mere beasts of burden. The savage warriors also treated them with great rudeness and contempt.

Miles soon found that he was destined to fill his old post of runner in front of Mohammed, his new master. This seemed to him unaccountable, for runners, he understood, were required only in towns and cities, not on a march. But the hardships attendant on the post, and the indignities to which he was subjected, at last convinced him that the Mahdi must have set the mind of his kinsman against him, and that he was now undergoing extra punishment as well as unique degradation.

The force that took the field on this occasion was a very considerable one—with what precise object in view was of course unknown to all except its chiefs, but the fact that it marched towards the frontiers of Egypt left no doubt in the mind of any one. It was a wild barbaric host, badly armed and worse drilled, but fired with a hatred of all Europeans and a burning sense of wrong.

“What think ye now, Miles?” asked Armstrong, as the captives sat grouped together in the midst of the host on the first night of their camping out in the desert.

“I think that everything seems to be going wrong,” answered Miles, in a desponding tone. “At first I thought that Mohammed was our friend, but he has treated me so badly that I can think so no longer.”

“Don’t you think he may be doing that to blind his followers as to his friendship?” said Moses; “for myself, I can’t help thinkin’ he must be grateful for what you did, Miles.”

“I only wish you had not touched my rifle that day,” said Rattling Bill, fiercely—being fatigued and out of temper—“for the blackguard would have bin in ‘Kingdom come’ by this time. There’s no gratitude in an Arab. I have no hope at all now.”

“My hope is in God,” said Stevenson.

“Well, mate, common-sense tells me that that should be our best ground of hope,” observed Molloy;