“I and my people will be here after you are gone, and if I was to do so the Abyssinians would come down on us, burn our villages, kill our men, and take our women and children as slaves.”
I assure you, reader, that when that old man shook his head he did not shake all the sense out of it. There was a good deal of logic in his remarks, and it is highly probable that had the old man accepted the offer made, he and many of his braves would soon have been translated (to use an orthodox phrase), and the merry dollars would have danced off into possession of the Dembelas; therefore the old man “deserved well of his country.” Indeed, his diplomatic action would almost entitle him to the appellation of a grand old man, though he did not look it.
February 12th.—The stillness of the night fortunately was not broken by the clash of arms, and I awoke, refreshed by a sound sleep, at 6 a.m. Whilst we were at breakfast Mr. F. James proposed that we again ask Sheik Hoodoo to let us have 200 of his men to assist us in making a raid on the enemy, and if he would not, that we should send the caravan back to the last camping place, and take about 20 of our own, as we were not at all satisfied to leave poor Mahomet (who might still be living) to his fate. Hoodoo was accordingly approached with the same result as before, he adding—
“I am at peace with them, and I cannot make your quarrel mine.”
The old man was about right. Six camels had yesterday been sent to Amadeb, a garrison town, for dhurra. We therefore had to divide their loads with the remaining camels. When most of the camels had their loads on, we told our men that we should want some of them to go with us. This (with the exception of about half-a-dozen) they flatly refused to do, saying that they were engaged as camel-drivers not to fight the Dembelas. They were evidently bent on retreating from the Abyssinian frontier whether we were or not. Suleiman, who knew these people pretty well, now stepped forward—
“What good you gentlemen go fight Dembelas? You only six or seven, the Dembelas hundreds. You do no good. Mahomet, he dead now, and the vultures eat him. If you go, these men go off with their camels. How, then, we get out of the country? The Basé and Abyssinians then turn round and kill us all.”
This was good reasoning. Abdullah now brought my camel ready for starting, so—pending the settlement of “to be or not to be”—I spread my rug on the ground and lay down to read a book, with my rifle by my side. It was now about 11 o’clock. I had not been here above ten minutes when I saw everyone rushing across the camp, rifle in hand, shouting—“Hakeem,” and “Doctor, doctor—quick!” I was up in an instant, rifle in hand, and darted across in the same direction as the others, naturally thinking—“The time has come at last. We are in for it now with the Dembelas.”
It was not an attack at all, but a most pitiful sight. There was poor Mahomet, who had managed to crawl into camp, then sank exhausted on the ground. The poor fellow turned his large soft-looking eyes piteously on to me. He was supporting with his hands and tope as much viscera—covered with sand dried on it, and quite adherent—as would fill a good-sized washing-basin. My rifle was at once dropped for my dressing-case; water was obtained, the opening (made by a spear) slightly enlarged, the viscera washed, replaced in the cavity of the abdomen, and the opening secured by a suture or two. He was in a state of collapse, and death pretty certain. He had also a wound in the fleshy part of the arm, and two others in the muscles of the back, just by the spine. Whilst I attended to these, some extract of beef and brandy was obtained, a fire soon kindled, and a good supply of brandy and beef-tea, administered, which soon revived him. An angarep was then rigged up, and twelve of the Basé (six at a time) were told off at a dollar each to carry him on to the next camp. I followed close by, giving him brandy and beef-tea every half-hour; but all was of no avail, for he died at 9 o’clock next morning. He was a Mahomedan. A tope as a shroud, with some needles and thread, were given to the friends. They would not, however, use the needle and thread, preferring the shreds of the palm leaf. A grave was dug near the camp, and there the poor fellow was buried; Suleiman remarking, “These Basé, they soon have Mahomet up; they not leave that good tope there long.” And I have no doubt he was right in his prediction.
Mahomet’s account of the scrimmage, and his escape to camp, was this: He stated that when the Abyssinians, or Dembelas, said “aman” it meant “Put down your arms and take your lives; we are stronger than you, so you must give up all you have.” He noticed that they were tremendously out-numbered, so thought it was the best thing to do. When he saw Mr. Phillipps trying to recover his rifle, another Abyssinian was about to strike him with the butt-end of a rifle; he rushed to his assistance, and it was then he received the fatal spear thrust in his abdomen, causing him to fall down on the sand, where he received two or three more, as detailed before. When everyone ran away, he tried to struggle on, succeeding ere night came on in getting pretty near to camp by alternately walking and resting awhile, until at last he sat under a tree quite exhausted. He says that he both saw and heard us when we were returning after our search for him, and that he cried out, but could not make us hear. The greater part of the way to camp next morning he accomplished by crawling on his hands and knees.