Book Four—Chapter Six.
The Mystery Explained—After the Battle—Death of Somali Jack.
Before we can understand the seeming mystery that clings to the end of the last chapter of this tale, we must go a little way back, both as regards time and space.
All the men Harry had with him in the unfortunate scuttled dhow at the time she was beached were taken, along with little Raggy, by the so-called brother of Mahmoud into the far interior of Africa, and there sold or bartered away as slaves, and, as we already know, Suliemon made what dealers term “a pretty penny” out of the nefarious transaction.
Escape for the poor fellows so banished seemed impossible, for, although they had had an idea, from the appearance of the sun and stars, that they had been all the time journeying steadily west, with either a little angle of south or of north in it, so cruelly long had the route been, so terrible had been their hardships, and so great their dangers, that the idea of returning was considered by them as entirely out of the question. Hope did not quite forsake them, however, but they had no means of communicating with the outer world—that is, the world beyond this dark continent. Occasionally they cut letters in the hides of the wild beasts that had been slain, as these skins often found their way to the markets of Zanzibar and Lamoo.
Who knows, they told each other, but some one may see these letters, and come to our assistance!
But alas! though the letters were seen, and marvelled at and talked about, no government, either English or French, deemed it worth while to send a search and relief expedition.
Yet those ten poor fellows had wives and little ones, had sisters and brothers, and fathers and mothers at home, who were, like Harry’s parents, mourning for them as dead.
The lives of cruelty and indignity which they had led, during all these long dark dreary months and years, it is not my intention to describe. Suffice it to say that these men were the abject slaves of a brutal king, compelled to eat of the most loathsome garbage and to live in a state of almost nudity. No wonder that already four of their number had passed away. Their bodies, shocking to relate, were not even buried, but thrown into the jungle for the wild dogs to gnaw and the ants to eat.
The others lived, including Nicholls the bo’s’n.
Ah! often and often had they wished to die.
The only pleasure of their lives, if pleasure it could be called, was that at night they were not separated, but kept in one common prison, strictly guarded by armed sentinels.
Then in the dark they used to talk of the dear old days at sea, and of their homes far away in peaceful England.
More than once during the time of their captivity King Kara-Kara had been on the war-path against the drunken old ’Ngaloo, and the former had been the victor, although he had not followed up his triumph, as he used to threaten he would do, and annihilate ’Ngaloo and his people.
The two kings hated each other with a true and everlasting hatred, and the same may be said of their followers or people.
A day of rejoicing came at last, though, to the poor white slaves, and that was when the island scout had bravely forced his way into camp, and given them news of their officer Harry.
Then the king their master got word, somehow or other, of all the prosperity of honest Googagoo, and determined at once that he would make war upon him and utterly spoil and harry him.
So he called his men of war together, and made all preparations for the campaign which we have seen to end so disastrously for this ambitious monarch. He reckoned without his host in a manner of speaking—at all events he did not take King ’Ngaloo into account. He kept the sentinels on the hills and slipped away northwards at the dead of night.
Now ’Ngaloo had recently had a visit from a band of Somalis under the guidance of an Arab, who had brought him gifts of rum and beads. ’Ngaloo gave the beads to his wives to hang around their fat necks, their wrists, arms, and ankles, and his wives were happy in consequence, and even submitted with patience and smiles to be pulled around the palace tent by the king’s horrid tongs. But ’Ngaloo stuck to the rum.
He never knew quite clearly what he was about as long as his him lasted, but he was not a fool for all that; and when one day a sentinel reported that the towns and camp of Kara-Kara were very still and almost deserted—
“Oh!” said the king, “old Kara’s away after something. Ha! ha! ha! now is the chance for me! But I wonder where he has gone to.”
These rival kings had one thing in common, a certain superstition not unusual among some African potentates; they thought it unlucky to make war the one upon the other without some cause. These causes, however, were easily found; if they could not be found, then they could be manufactured for the occasion.
’Ngaloo determined to manufacture one now. So he went to bed, not to sleep, for he ordered his prime minister to squat on the floor close to his dais and hand him rum as he wanted it.
’Ngaloo preferred drinking like this, it saved him the trouble of tumbling about.
He lay awake nearly all night thinking and laughing and giggling to himself. Once he caught his prime minister napping, and gave him a back-hander with his tongs, which effectually kept him awake for some time to come.
In the morning ’Ngaloo called three of his people to him, and sent them away across the hills with a message for King Kara-Kara. It was to the following effect, though I cannot give the exact words:
“Will King Kara-Kara be good enough to cross the mountains with his army, and visit his dear brother King ’Ngaloo, the mighty monarch of the whole universal earth, who will have the greatest pleasure in pulling King Kara-Kara’s nose with his gilded tongs, and the nose of every man in his army.”
Off went the three men, and delivered their message, and off went their heads just three minutes afterwards. For though King Kara-Kara was far away, he had left a lord-lieutenant behind him.
It did not matter about the messengers having their heads off, they were first on the list, at all events, for the next human sacrifice, and a day or two back or fore could not hurt. But as they did not return, the fact formed a casus belli, and gave ’Ngaloo just the opportunity he wished for.
So he put on his war clothes, hung his tongs in his girdle beside his dagger, took his spear in his hand, summoned all his army, and marched over the borders, five thousand strong, with tom-toms beating and chanters braying, and in two days’ time had entered the Kara-Kara territory.
He captured every one he could, only those that were not worth capturing he made short work of. Then he burned all his enemy’s towns and villages, and having left a thousand men to lay siege to an inaccessible mountain, on the top of which, with the white prisoners, the lord-lieutenant had made his camp, ’Ngaloo with the rest of his savage army followed his foe up to the lake side, and it was fortunate he had arrived in time, as we have seen in the last chapter.
The remnant of Kara-Kara’s beaten army hied them back to their own country, only to find it laid waste by fire and sword; so they fled away into the wilderness, and joined other tribes with whom they had been friendly before this.
Having both fought on one side, and both assisted each other in annihilating the unfortunate Kara-Kara, ’Ngaloo and Googagoo naturally became very friendly.
Both armies bivouacked that night on the battlefield, and the wounded were attended to. These, however, owing to the brutal customs of African warfare, were very few, for ’Ngaloo’s men in the moonlight ran a-muck all across the blood-stained field, and ruthlessly slew all those who showed the slightest signs of life.
Next morning was a sad one for Harry, for his faithful Somali Jack, who had served him so long and so faithfully, who had nursed him in sickness, and more than once saved his life, breathed his last in his arms shortly after sunrise.
He had been terribly wounded in the battle, and nothing could save the poor fellow.
Quite conscious he was to the last, and conscious, too, that his end was drawing near, though neither he nor Harry knew it was so very nigh.
Some duty or other demanded Harry’s presence in another part of the field, but Jack said—
“Do not go and leave me now, dear master; stay with me a little time.”
“I will stay; I will not go—poor Jack,” replied Harry. And he sat down beside the dying Indian, and took his head in his lap.
Harry often thought of this last interview with his Somali servant afterwards, and how thankful he always felt, when he did so, that he had not gone away and left Jack. Had he done that he would not have seen the last of him, or heard his dying words.
These, however, were few, for Jack was weak and his voice feeble, and his breath coming in gasps. He lay some time quiet, then—
“I have so much to say,” he almost whispered; “but I forget, and I am cold—so cold.”
“I have a brother in Brava.”
Harry thought he said mother.
“You have a mother, Jack?”
“No; no mother—a brother. See him; tell him how I died, how I lived. Tell him about heaven and all things good, as you have told me.”
“Raggy—he will miss poor Jack.”
There was a long interval of silence. Jack’s eyes were closed now, and Harry thought he slept. But he opened them presently.
Then he put his cold damp hand in Harry’s. “Master,” he said, “you have given me life.”
“Oh, Jack!” said Harry, “I fear it is far beyond my skill to give you life.”
“But you have given me life—light and life. I was but a savage. You have told me of Him who can love even a savage.”
“Yes, yes, Jack; He loves you. He will receive you.”
“Say ‘The Vale,’” Jack murmured.
Harry knew what he meant, and repeated a verse or two, in metre, of that beautiful psalm that has given comfort to many a soul in sorrow.
The last verse that Jack could have heard was the fourth:
“Yea, though I walk thro’ death’s dark vale,
Yet will I fear none ill,
For Thou art with me; and Thy rod
And staff me comfort still.”
There were just a few long-drawn sobs at intervals, then Harry sat watching to see if he would sigh again.
But a minute passed, and Jack sighed no more. Harry gently closed the eyes.
Then he sat for a time, biting his lip till it almost bled; but all to no purpose, his sorrow would find vent.
And knowing all we do, can we wonder at Harry’s grief?
Can we wonder that he bent over that faithful Jack, and that the scalding tears fell from his eyes upon the poor dead face?