Blue Lights: Hot Work in the Soudan

Silence followed, for Simkin was too angry, as well as worn out, to give his mind seriously to anything at that time, and the others were more or less uncertain as to the truth of what was advanced.

Sleep, profound and dreamless, soon banished these and all other subjects from their minds. Blessed sleep! so aptly as well as beautifully styled, “Tired Nature’s sweet restorer.” That great host of dusky warriors—some unquestionably devout, many cruel and relentless, not a few, probably, indifferent to everything except self, and all bent on the extermination of their white-skinned foes,—lay down beside their weapons, and shared in that rest which is sent alike to the just and to the unjust, through the grand impartiality, forbearance, and love of a God whom many people apparently believe to be a “respecter of persons!”

A few days later the little army came to the edge of a range of hills, beyond which lay the plains of the vast Nubian desert. At night they encamped at the base of the hill-country, through which they had been travelling, and the captives were directed to take up their position in front of an old ruined hut, where masses of broken stones and rubbish made the ground unsuitable for camping on.

“Just like them!” growled Simkin, looking about for a fairly level spot. “There’s not a place big enough for a dog to lie on!”

Supper made Rattling Bill a little more amiable, though not much more forgiving to his foes. A three-quarters moon soon afterwards shed a faint light on the host, which, except the sentries, was sound asleep.

Towards midnight a solitary figure moved slowly towards the place where the captives lay and awakened Miles, who sat up, stared, winked, and rubbed his eyes two or three times before he could bring himself to believe that his visitor was no other than the chief of the host—Mohammed!

“Rise. Com. I speak small Engleesh.”

Miles rose at once and followed the chief into the ruined hut.

“Clear de ground,” he said, pointing to the centre of the floor.

Our hero obeyed, and, when the loose rubbish was cleared away, the moonbeams, shining through the ruined roof, fell on a ring bolt. Being ordered to pull it, he raised a cover or trap-door, and discovered beneath what appeared to be a cellar.

“Now,” said Mohammed, “listen: you an’ friends go down—all. I shut door and cover up—rubsh. When we all go ’way, com out and go home. See, yonder is home.”

He pointed to the north-eastward, where a glowing star seemed to hang over the margin of the great level desert.

“You are generous—you are kind!” exclaimed Miles, with a burst of enthusiasm.

“Me grateful,” said Mohammed, extending his hand in European fashion, which Miles grasped warmly. “Go, wake you comerads. Tell what me say, and com quick!”

Miles was much too well-disciplined a soldier to hesitate, though he would have liked much to suggest that some of the troops might, before starting, take a fancy to explore the ruin, and to ask how long they should remain in the cellar before venturing out. Quietly awaking all his comrades, and drawing their surprised heads together, he whispered his tale in their wondering ears. After that they were quite prepared to act, and accompanied him noiselessly into the ruin.

“Is the cellar deep?” asked Miles, as he was about to descend.

“No; not deep.”

“But what about grub—whittles, meat, an’ water—you know,” said Molloy, with difficulty accommodating his words to a foreigner. “We’ll starve if we go adrift on the desert with nothin’ to eat or drink.”

“Here—food,” said Mohammed, unslinging a well-filled haversack from his shoulders and transferring it to those of the sailor. “Stop there,” he continued, pointing to the cellar, “till you hears guns—shoot—noise. I have make prep’rations! After that, silence. Then, com out, an’ go home.” Once again he pointed towards the glowing star in the north-east.

“Mohammed,” exclaimed Molloy, becoming suddenly impressed with the generous nature of the Arab’s action, “I don’t know as you’re a descendant o’ the Prophet, but I do know that you’re a brick. Give us your flipper before we part!”

With a grave expression of kindliness and humour the chief shook hands with the seaman. Then the captives all descended into the hole, which was not more than four feet deep, after which the Arab shut the trap, covered it as before with a little rubbish, and went away.

“Suppose he has bolted the door!” suggested Moses.

“Hold your tongue, man, and listen for the signal,” said Miles.

“I forget what he said the signal was to be,” observed Simkin.

“Guns—shoot—noise—after that silence!” said Armstrong. “It’s a queer signal.”

“But not difficult to recognise when we hear it,” remarked Miles.

The time seemed tremendously long as they sat there listening—the cellar was too low for them to stand—and they began to fancy that all kinds of horrible shapes and faces appeared in the intense darkness around them. When they listened intensely, kept silent, and held their breath, their hearts took to beating the drums of their ears, and when a sudden breath or sigh escaped it seemed as if some African monster were approaching from the surrounding gloom.

“Is that you, Simkin, that’s breathin’ like a grampus?” asked Molloy, after a long pause.

“I was just goin’ to ask you to stop snorin’,” retorted the soldier.

“Hush! There’s a shot!”

It was indeed a distant shot, followed immediately by several more. Then a rattle of musketry followed—nearer at hand.

Instantly, as if the earth had just given birth to them, the host of dusky warriors sprang up with yells of surprise and defiance, and, spear in hand, rushed in the direction of the firing. For a few minutes the listeners in the cellar heard as it had been a mighty torrent surging past the ruined hut. Gradually the force of the rush began to abate, while the yells and firing became more distant; at last all sounds ceased, and the listeners were again oppressed by the beating on the drums of their ears.

“They’re all gone—every mother’s son,” said Molloy at last, breaking the oppressive silence.

“That’s so,” said Rattling Bill; “up wi’ the trap, Miles. You’re under it, ain’t you? I’m suffocating in this hole.”

“I’m not under it. Molloy came down last,” said Miles.

“What if we can’t find it?” suggested Stevenson.

“Horrible!” said Moses, in a hoarse whisper, “and this may be a huge cavern, with miles of space around us, instead of a small cellar!”

“Here it is!” cried the sailor, making a heave with his broad back. “I say—it won’t move! Ah, I wasn’t rightly under it. Yo! heave-o!” Up went the door with a crash, and the soft moonlight streamed in upon them.

A few seconds more and they stood outside the hut—apparently the only living beings in all that region, which had been so full of human life but a few minutes before.

“Now we must lose no time in getting away from this place, and covering as much of the desert as we can during the night,” said Miles, “for it strikes me that we’ll have to lie quiet during the day, for fear of being seen and chased.”

They spoke together in whispers for a few minutes, deciding the course they meant to pursue. Then Molloy shouldered the provision bag, Miles grasped his official lance—the only weapon they had among them,—and off they set on their journey across the desert, like a ship entering on an unknown sea, without the smallest idea of how far they were from the frontier of Egypt, and but a vague notion of the direction in which they ought to go.

Chapter Twenty Eight

A Horrible Situation.

All that night our fugitives walked steadily in the direction of their guiding-star, until the dawn of day began to absorb its light. Then they selected a couple of prominent bushes on the horizon, and, by keeping these always in their relative positions, were enabled to shape their course in what they believed to be the right direction. By repeating the process continuously they were enabled to advance in a fairly straight line.

Molloy, as we have said, carried the provision bag, and, although it was a very heavy one, he refused to let his comrades relieve him of it until breakfast-time. Then it was discovered that inside of the large bag there were rolled tight up four smaller bags with shoulder-straps to them.

“A knowin’ feller that Mohammed is,” said Jack Molloy, as he handed a bag to each; “he understands how to manage things. Let’s see what sort o’ grub he has. Corn-cakes, I do believe, an’ dates, or some sort o’ dried fruit, an’—water-bottles! well, that is a comfort. Now then, boys, go ahead. We can’t afford to waste time over our meals.”

The others so thoroughly agreed with their friend on this point that they began to eat forthwith, almost in silence. Then, the provisions having been distributed, they resumed their march, which was almost a forced one, so anxious were they to get as far away as possible from the Arab army.

Coming to a large mimosa bush in the course of the morning they halted and sat down to rest a little, and hold what the sailor called a “palaver.”

“You see, boys,” he said, “it’ll be of no manner of use our scuddin’ away before the wind under a press o’ canvas like this, without some settled plan—”

“Ain’t our plan to git away from the Arabs as fast as we can?” said Moses Pyne, who sat on a stone at the sailor’s feet.