In the grip of the Mullah: A tale of adventure in Somaliland

by F. S. Brereton

"What is that?" Jim asked himself the question with a start of surprise, and with a sudden feeling of reviving hope, for now again he was looking in the direction of the watch-fires, which not only aided him in locating the position of the sentry, but also showed something—a glimmer upon the ground where there should have been darkness alone.

"Was it the sword which the sentry placed beside him before he fell asleep, or was it merely some stray piece of metal upon which the firelight fell?"

Lying there full length in the shadow, Jim thought the matter out, and finally, emboldened by the fact that the man made no movement, and by the recollection that iron was a metal of great value to the Somalis, and was not likely to be flung carelessly about, he left his position, and advanced stealthily like a cat about to pounce upon its prey. It was a moment of excitement, for as he neared the man, keeping his eye fixed all the while upon him, some alteration in the reflection of the watch-fire caused him to turn his head, and there, stalking into the darkness as he walked his solitary beat about the Mullah's hut, came the warrior who kept watch there. Again his figure was silhouetted sharply, and, in spite of his dangerous position, Jim found himself vaguely wondering what was the man's height and age, and what kind of an athlete he was. Indeed, so strangely does one's mind wander in the most hazardous circumstances, that straightway Jim's thoughts carried him back to the football field at school, and in a senseless way he began to find a place for this brawny warrior in the team. But a moment later the man had vanished into the reflection of the flames again, and there was the slumbering sentry upon whose sword he had designs. Two paces forward, and Jim's fingers lit upon the handle, and began slowly, cautiously, to withdraw the weapon.

The sleeper stirred, and ground his teeth, as though his dreams were not of the sweetest, then he awoke with a start, and raised his head. But he was quickly reassured, for again, trudging from the dim light beyond into the darkness, came his comrade, head poised proudly in the air, and spear resting upon his shoulder. With a grunt of satisfaction the man behind whom Jim lay settled his head upon his breast once more, and gave himself up to sleep without restraint.

A minute later our hero was behind the hut, and with the weapon grasped in both hands was attacking the wall fiercely, as though life itself depended upon his exertions. Chip! chip! At every thrust the point of the steel bit into the hard sun-baked clay, and sent splinters of it flying. Another lunge, and a mass of the material detached itself and fell to the ground, with a sound which, though not loud, caused Jim suddenly to stop his efforts and crouch again, fearful that he had been overheard. But a glance round the corner of the building showed him the sentry still asleep, with his comrade continuing upon his round.

Chip! chip! chip! Resuming his labours, Jim kept prodding at the wall till quite a respectable amount had fallen. Then of a sudden, as he gave a still stronger thrust, he felt the mass before him give way, and the point of the weapon went through into the interior with a grating sound.

Had anyone heard the noise? Was that someone stirring? Perhaps it was the prisoner, his dear father, who had guessed that rescue was at hand; or perhaps it was the sentry.

Something fell upon Jim's listening ear, and instantly he suspended his labours, and, crouching at the foot of the wall, waited to see what would happen.

Yes, it was undoubtedly the man who had been sleeping before the door; for suddenly a stooping figure came shuffling round the building, peering suspiciously into the darkness, as if something had disturbed his rest and caused alarm.

Would he be seen? Was it possible that by lying flat there upon the ground he could have escaped the attention of the Somali warrior? And if not, then how was he to act?