Book Three—Chapter Three.
A Chapter of Surprises—A Mysterious Pack, and a Mysterious Appearance.
Danger sharpens one’s wits. It makes the old young again, and the young old—in judgment.
Harry was no fool from the commencement, and he now reasoned rightly enough, that Mahmoud with his savage caravan, as soon as he missed the runaways, would naturally conclude that they had gone back towards the coast.
This, however, was precisely the thing that Harry had no present intention of doing. And why? it may be asked. Ought he not to be glad of the freedom he had once more obtained, and make the best of his way to some friendly village or town by the sea-shore? Perhaps; but then Harry was a wayward youth. He was wayward and headstrong, but on this occasion I think he had right on his side.
“I cannot and will not return,” he said to himself, “without making some effort to find my poor fellows—if, indeed, they be still alive. Besides, this is a strange and a lovely land, and there are strange adventures to be met with. I must see a little of it while I am here.”
You will notice, reader, that hope was already throwing its glamour over the poor lad’s mind. He dearly loved nature, but while being dragged away as a prisoner, although some parts of the country through which he passed had been charming enough, he could not bear to gaze on their beauty while he was a slave.
Flowers grew in abundance on many parts of the plains; they grew in patches, in beds of gorgeous colour, here, there, and everywhere—pale blue, dark blue, yellow, crimson, and modest brown; they carpetted the ground, and even trailed up over and beautified the stunted scrub bushes. As Burns hath it, these flowers—
“Sprang wanton to be pressed.”
At another time their sunlit glory would have dazzled him, now they had seemed to mock him in his misery, and he had crushed them under foot.
Great birds sailed majestically and slowly overhead, or flew with that lazy indifference peculiar to some of the African species, ascending some distance, then letting themselves fall again, putting no more exertion into the action of flight than was absolutely necessary, but sauntering along through the air, as it were. Never mind, they were happy, and Harry had hated them because they were so happy—and free. Long after the caravan had left the coast, sea-birds even came floating round them.
“Come away, Harry!” they seemed to scream. “Come away—away—away!”
They were happy too. Oh, he had thought, if he could only be as free, and had their lithesome, lissom wings!
Monster butterflies like painted fans, browns, vermilions, and ultramarines hovered indolently over the flowers. How they appeared to enjoy the sunshine!
Even the bronzy green or black beetles that moved about among the grass or over the bare patches of ground had something to do, something to engross their minds, thoroughly to the exclusion of every other consideration in life.
As for the lovely sea-green lizards with broad arrows of crimson on their shoulders, they simply squatted, panting, on stones, or lay along reed-stalks, making the very most of life and sunshine; while as for the giant cicadas, their happiness considerably interfered with the business of their little lives, because they were so very, very, very happy that they had to stop about every two minutes to sing.
But now, why Harry was free and as happy as any of them—at present, at all events.
As he trudged along in the moonlight he could not help making a little joke to himself.
“Go back!” he said, half aloud. “No, Scotchmen never go back.”
Well, then, Mahmoud, after retreating for some distance towards the coast, would no doubt resume his journey. Of this Harry felt sure enough, because Nanungamanoo told his new master, before they had gone very far that night, that the Arab priest was on his way to a far distant country, quite unknown to any other trader, there to purchase a gang of slaves from a king, who would sell his people for fire-water.
“The scoundrels!” said Harry.
“Yes, sahib.”
“Both I mean; both king and priest. I’d tie them neck to neck and drown them as one drowns kittens.”
“Yes, sahib.”
“And no one else knows of this territory?”
“No white man, sahib.”
“The villain! A little nest of his own that he robs periodically. A happy hunting-ground all to himself. So you think Mahmoud will shortly come on this way?”
“Sure to, sahib.”
Harry considered a short time, then—
“Well, Nanungamanoo, my good fellow, it won’t do to get in front of him. He would soon find our trail.”
“Yes, sahib, and kill us with fire.”
“Would he now? That would not be pleasant, Nanungamanoo. By the way, Nanungamanoo, what an awful name you have! Excuse me, Nanungamanoo, but we must really try to find you a shorter. Do you understand, Mr Nanungamanoo? We’ll boil that name of yours down, or extract the essence of it and let you have that. But touching this pretty priest, this amiable individual, who hesitates not to buy poor slaves for rum, although he is far too good to fight for them. He’ll be along this way in a day or two. Now I greatly object to be hurried, especially when I am out upon a little pleasure trip like the present—ha! ha! I don’t think for a moment that either an Arab or any of you Somali fellows are half so clever at picking up a trail as your genuine North American backwoods Indian; but then, you know, even an Arab or a Somali couldn’t go past the mark of an old camp-fire without smelling a rat. Do you understand, Mr Nanungamanoo?—bother your name, it’s a regular twice-round the clock business!”
“I understand,” replied Nanungamanoo, “much that you say even in English.”
“Well, Mr Nanungamanoo, if you behave yourself and are long with me, I’ll put you to school and teach you myself—good English. But,” continued Harry, “we must have this angelic Mahmoud on ahead of us. So if you can find a place to hide, we will let him pass and give him a fair start. For, as you say that you know this route well, and no other, we must be content to keep it for some time to come at all events.”
“Yes, sahib; and I know the place to hide. Come.”
“I’ll follow as fast as you like, Mr Nanungamanoo. But, first and foremost, just let us see what you have in that bundle of yours—to eat, I mean. I haven’t really felt so genuinely hungry since I was taken prisoner. My eyes! Nanungamanoo, what a size your bundle is! You seem to have looted the whole camp.”
The Somali laid down the burden and prepared to open it. It was wrapped in a kind of coarse blue-striped cloth, much admired by certain tribes of savages.
They had reached a patch of high clearing in the jungle, the moon was shining very brightly, so, although there were lions about, there was very little fear of an attack, these gentry much preferring to catch their foes unawares and by daylight.
The Somali undid his bundle precisely like a packman of olden times, showing off the wares he had for sale.
“This is the food,” he said.
“What! dry rice? Why, my good fellow, I’m not a fowl.”
“Fowl—yes, yes,” cried Nanungamanoo, the first words he had spoken in English. “Here is fowl and rice curry.”
“Ha! glorious!” cried Harry. “Capitally cooked too, done to a turn, tastes delicious. Have a bit yourself, old man. No doubt Mahmoud had intended this for his own little breakfast. I feel double the individual now, Nanungamanoo,” said Harry, after he had done ample justice to the viands of his late lord and master, “double the individual. Now suppose we proceed to investigate still further the contents of your mysterious pack? That’s the ammunition, is it? A goodly lot too! But what is in that other pack? There are wheels within wheels, and packs within packs, my clever Nanungamanoo. You are afraid to touch it—to open it. Give it to me, I will.”
So saying he quickly undid the lashing.
“Why,” he continued in astonishment, as he lifted the things up one by one, “my own best uniform jacket—two pairs of white duck pants—my Sunday-go-meeting pairs—one—two—three—four flannel shirts, my best ones too—a pair of canvas shoes—a packet of new uniform buttons, and a yard of gold lace—three cakes of eating chocolate, and a box of cough drops that old Yonitch gave me as a parting gift. Why, Nanungamanoo, as sure as we’re squatting here, and the moon shining down over us both, that old thief has been and gone and robbed my sea-chest! I see his little game, Nanungamanoo: he was taking these things of mine away into the interior to that happy hunting-ground of his, to swop them away along with myself to the drunken old king for slaves. Yes, and they would have stripped me of the uniform I now wear, and given me an old cow’s hide instead with the horns stuck over my brow and the tail hanging down behind. Oh! Mr Mahmoud, but I have spoiled your fun. But there they are, goodness be praised, and I must not be too hard on old Mahmie after all, for he did save my life.”
Nanungamanoo laughed a sneering laugh.
“You were too valuable to burn,” he said.
“Do you really suppose then, my worthy Nanungamanoo, that Mahmoud looked upon the matter as a commercial transaction?”
“Now you speak Hindustanee. I do not know.”
“Never mind, make up the bundle again, and let us trudge. From the position of the moon it must be getting on towards morning.”
Nanungamanoo held up three fingers and proceeded with his work.
“Three o’clock, is it? Well, heave round, let us up anchor and be off.”
After re-establishing his valuable pack, Nanungamanoo carefully collected the bones of the feast and threw them under a bush, and was proceeding to obliterate the marks they had made on the withered grass by raising it again with his foot, when a twig cracked in a neighbouring thicket. Both Harry and Nanungamanoo speedily clutched their rifles.
Almost immediately after a black and nearly naked figure emerged slowly into the moonlight, and stood at some little distance, holding up one arm across his face as if to protect it from the blow of the bullet Nanungamanoo would have fired, but Harry thrust his arm up.
Then Raggy Muffin advanced.
“Golla-mussy, massa! What for you want to shoot poor Raggy?”
“But, Raggy,” cried Harry, “in the name of mystery how came you here?”
“I came, massa, to cut your cords ob bondage, all same as de little mouse cut de cords ob de great big lion.”
“But where did you come from, Raggy? Sit down, poor boy, your cheeks are thin, sit down and pick a bone.”
“No, no, massa, not here, not here. Dey am all alive in Mahmoud’s camp, I can ’ssure you ob dat.”
“You came through there?”
“I came to cut your cords ob bondage, massa.”
“Well?”
“Well, den I see dat de bird hab flown.”
“Yes, Raggy.”
“Den I pick up ebery ting I see lying about handy, massa. Den I follow your trail.”
“Ha! ha! ha! So you’ve been looting too, have you? Well, Raggy, get your parcel and let us be off. Lead on, Nanungamanoo.”
“La! massa,” said Raggy, grinning all over, “suppose I hab one long name like dat nigger, I cut it all up into leetle pieces, and hab one for ebery day in de week.”
The march was now recommenced.
The Somali trode gingerly on ahead, picking his way through the flowery sward, as if afraid to leave the slightest trail.
Harry and Raggy came up behind.
It was evident the Somali was now making a détour; at all events they shortly found themselves at the river, which was here broad and shallow. This they forded, taking care to keep their packs and rifles dry.
Into a weird-looking bit of forest they now plunged.
A weird-looking forest indeed. Every tree seemed an ogre in the moonlight. Yet the air was heavily odorous with the sweet breath of some species of mimosa bloom, and the ground was for the most part free from undergrowth.
The forest grew darker and darker as they proceeded, and they could hear a lion growl in the distance. He was far away, yet Harry clutched his rifle and drew little Raggy close up to his side.
He was not sorry when the moonlight shone down on them once more through the branches of a baobab tree. Here they stopped to breathe.
On again, and now the way began to ascend, still in the forest, and still comparatively in the gloom.
Up and up and up they went. It was quite a mountain for this district. At last the trees and then the bushes deserted them; then they were on the bluff, and Harry turned round to look.
Why, away down yonder—close under them it appeared—they could see the blazing camp-fire of Mahmoud’s caravan.
“Are we not too near, Nanungamanoo?”
“No. They will not stir till daylight Arabs are not brave at night. When they do start they will go towards the sun. We will wait and watch and see.”
And so it fell out, for no sooner had the clouds begun to turn bright yellow and crimson than the stir commenced in the camp.
Somalis ran hither and thither, it is true.
The babel of voices was terrible.
Mahmoud himself was here, there, and everywhere, and the whacks he freely dealt his soldiers with a bamboo cane were audible even to our friends on the hill-top. But when all was said and done, the caravan started back towards the coast, and in a few minutes there was silence all over the beautiful landscape.