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

by F. S. Brereton

"When I left you," he said, "I placed my rifle beside a boulder, for I knew that it would at once arouse the cupidity and suspicion of any whom I might meet. Then I descended the hill, and taking advantage of a long stretch of thick undergrowth which ran towards the village, I reached its outskirts without having seen a single stranger. Then I watched for an hour as the people walked to and fro, and happening to see two women who were busily engaged in crushing corn for their bread, I crept into the house behind them, and sat in the doorway listening to their conversation. From what they said I gathered that the Mullah can collect as many as sixty thousand men to march behind his banner, but that the greater portion are at present living peaceful lives in their own particular portion of the country. However, as soon as the British troops advance, the call to arms will be sounded, and all will hasten to join the Mullah. A little while later, one of the women began to speak of the expedition which started out this morning, and from her I learned that it has undoubtedly gone in search of our camp. But guns are scarce, and it seems that the band only has about fifty with it. That the Mullah had warning of our approach was evident, for one of the women stated that her husband was the scout who had observed our arrival on this side of the Hoad.

"Though I listened to their chatter for long, I learned nothing more of importance, for they conversed about their children and their homes. And so, carefully looking down the street, and observing that large numbers were about, I slipped in amongst them, feeling confident that my presence would not be noticed. Soon I was in their market, and following the lead of others of the men who were about, I purchased some fruit, haggling over the price, as is customary. Then, as I wandered from the stalls into the street again, I saw the white prisoner coming towards me."

"The white prisoner! My father!" almost shouted Jim, his pulses throbbing with the news. "Are you sure that it was he? What did he look like? Was he ill, and overcome by his miserable condition?"

He clutched Ali eagerly by the arm and poured the questions upon him so rapidly that the latter could not answer, but lay there gazing at him stolidly, as if astounded at his excitement.

"Gently! Speak quietly, master," he replied. "The questions which you ask are unnecessary, for there is but one prisoner, one white slave owned by the Mullah; assuredly, this one whom I saw is your father, and that he is ill and downcast is only to be expected. Indeed, so heavy are his cares, and so great the labour demanded of him, that already he has aged. Though but a few weeks have passed since he was cast upon this coast, and fell into the hands of these, our enemies, yet the time has been sufficient to make great changes in him. He is a tall man, but no longer does he bear himself proudly, for this drudgery and the hopelessness of life have overcome his spirit. He lacks energy, and walks along with eyes cast down and with never a thought of his surroundings. Indeed, it is clear that his mind is forever bent upon escape, and that when he chances to look to right or left he does so with the hope that something shall be there to help him—some friend who, pitying his condition, has come prepared to stretch out a hand, and aid him to reach his countrymen once more. As he passed me by, and looked at me vacantly, ignorant of the fact that I was in reality a comrade of his son who had marched all this way and had encountered so many dangers in the hope of rescuing him, it went to my heart to notice the deep lines that care had set upon his face, and the whiteness of his hair. Yes, master, no longer is it grey at the temples alone."

"Poor father!" murmured Jim sorrowfully, his pity raised to the highest at Ali's words. "Poor dad! What a change in his condition!"

For more than a minute there was silence.

"Go on!" at last said Jim, in more resolute tones. "It was a blow to hear that there is such a change in my father, and that he was so downcast. But after considering the matter, I am bound to confess that it is only to be expected. I must congratulate myself upon the fact that you have seen him alive, for we might have arrived at the Mullah's camp to find him dead, worn out by his sufferings. What if his hair is grey? Other men have lost their colour in a night under some great strain, but they have recovered it to some extent later on. Father will do the same. Once free, he will become the same jolly fellow I have always known him."

Tears stood in Jim's eyes as he spoke, for he was deeply moved at the thought of his father's condition, but with an effort he steadied himself, and signalled to Ali to proceed by raising his hand, for he could not trust himself to speak.

"Be happy, master. It matters nothing, whatever the colour of the hair, so long as life is there," answered Ali, in reassuring tones. "But let me proceed. Had I dared to do so, I would have signed to the prisoner and endeavoured to meet him in some out-of-the-way spot, but I saw that such an act would have been madness, for as he approached, I noticed first one, and then a second, armed warrior lounging amidst the throng, but keeping a careful eye all the while upon their charge. Even when my eyes and the prisoner's met, I could do nothing but turn hastily away and gaze at the passers-by on the opposite side. Then, little by little, I moved in the direction taken by your father, hoping to discover the house in which he dwelt, and have speech with him. But the attempt was doomed to disappointment in the last respect, for his guards kept ever at his side. However, I had the good fortune to find where he slept. It is that tumble-down dwelling which stands behind the central one from which the flag hangs, and some few paces away from it. See! There it is! And before the door is an armed Somali warrior keeping watch upon the prisoner."