"Do you wish to return or will you follow me, Mahomed? You have a free choice."
"I shall follow you," said Mahomed.
Stores were thrown away and burnt, and our sadly diminished little party pushed on. What happened does not greatly concern this story, but, among other things, we ran short of food, and passed through mostly uninhabited country. It was a miserable trek, and we were nearly always hungry. Once, when we met with natives, we purchased dug-out canoes, and as the country was one mass of waterways it looked as if our troubles might be nearing an end. But the canoes were heavy and there was little current to help them along. Sometimes, when worn out with the day's paddling and we wished to camp, not a dry spot could be found for miles and miles. When we found it it was nearly always infested with red ants that resented our intrusion, and made our lives a hell upon earth. When there were no red ants there were mosquitoes. As we pushed through the long grass, seeking something dry to burn, these latter attacked us in swarms. Then the day came when we were all on edge, and little unimportant things began to look out of all proportion to their size. As for Mahomed he was nearing collapse.
We were paddling down stream, my friend with a couple of Bantu in one canoe, Mahomed, an Arab, and I in another. The canoes were almost side by side, and the Bantus jeeringly called our attention to Mahomed, who, with closed eyes and limp body, was automatically dipping his paddle in-and-out of the water.
I looked at him. When a man has been suffering pure, unadulterated misery for days and nights on end the devils that are in his heart wax strong, and on the slightest excuse take charge. The sight of the forlorn, delicate Mahomed, instead of exciting pity within my breast, made me see red. Why should my man be flopping about like a dying duck in a thunderstorm, whilst these other fellows were still putting their backs into it? It was disgraceful!
"Curse you, and curse you, and curse you again! Pull yourself together, you apology for a man, and try at least to look like one!"
Mahomed was done—all in—but there was a something in the fellow that kept those lean arms moving spasmodically, and gripped the thin fingers to the paddle-handle. There was no gallery there to play to remember. If he had put the paddle down and said, "I am beaten; I can't go on," nothing would have happened. But he just carried on. That there was no change in his attitude annoyed me, and the Bantus laughed. Then, to my eternal shame, I sprang forward and struck him; struck him savagely as I would not strike a horse were it as tired as he. He did not flinch from the blow, but just pulled himself together and looked at me. The incident is twelve years old, but I have never forgotten that look. When I think of it I feel as ashamed of myself now as I did when I faced it.
The next day we camped on a dry piece of ground, and it was a case of shooting something for the pot. We had our choice of two varieties of game, doves and elephant, both with the rifle. There was no other animal-life fit for food. Mahomed and I found an elephant standing near an ant heap in long grass. I could not shoot from the side as the grass hid the animal when I stood on the ground, and when I sat on the ant heap his head was at an angle slightly pointing away from me. The one shot offering any hope of success was the frontal head one. This offered but a poor chance of success, but I wanted to get it over, and decided to take it. Mahomed stood behind me with a spare .303, and I, with a .318 in my hand, watched the big brute swaying on his legs as he dozed in the sun. On his head lay a great bunch of grass, which now and then fell to the ground, only to be picked up in his trunk and sleepily returned to its place as head-covering.
Then I fired, and as I had feared, the bullet struck at too great an angle and lodged harmlessly in the mass of forehead-bone. Then things moved. The brute saw me: I whipped back the bolt of my magazine rifle, and, as I pushed it home, the end of a bandage I was wearing on my hand fouled, with the inevitable consequence—a jam. So there I was, perched on an ant heap, in full view of an infuriated elephant, who, with uplifted trunk, came to investigate. The rifle was worse than jammed, because it was fast to my hand with a bandage that seemed to have the strength of a hundred ropes. Mahomed was behind and below with the spare rifle, and could neither see nor do anything. There was room for but one man on the heap to which I stuck, trying frantically to clear my hand. With a shout of "Hold on," Mahomed reached up, tore clear the rifle, bandage and all, and passed the .303 just in time. When it was all over—it was a matter of seconds—I came down and looked at him. Just looked at him, for I could not speak. Mahomed Fara looked back and smiled. We were even. In return for the cowardly blow I had dealt him yesterday he had, by his coolness and presence of mind, saved my life. When I did find my tongue I said, "By God, you are a man," and that closed the incident between us for ever.