Blue Lights: Hot Work in the Soudan by R. M. Ballantyne (best novels of all time TXT) 📕
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- Author: R. M. Ballantyne
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Thereafter he was conducted to a small chamber, which, although extremely simple, and almost devoid of furniture, was both cleaner and lighter than that in which he and his comrades had been at first immured. He observed, however, with a feeling of despondency, that it was lighted only by small square holes in the roof, and that the door was very substantial!
Here his conductor left him without saying a word and bolted the door. As he listened to the retreating steps of his jailer echoing on the marble pavement of the court, a feeling of profound dejection fell upon our hero’s spirit, and he experienced an almost irresistible tendency to give way to unmanly tears. Shame, however, came to his aid and enabled him to restrain them.
In one corner of the little room there was a piece of thick matting. Sitting down on it with his back against the wall, the poor youth laid his face in his hands and began to think and to pray. But the prayer was not audible; and who can describe the wide range of thought—the grief, the anxiety for comrades as well as for himself, the remorse, the intense longing to recall the past, the wish that he might awake and find that it was only a wild dream, and, above all, the bitter—almost vengeful—self-condemnation!
He was aroused from this condition by the entrance of a slave bearing a round wooden tray, on which were a bowl of food and a jug of water.
Placing these before him, the slave retired without speaking, though he bestowed a glance of curiosity on the “white infidel dog,” before closing the door.
Appetite had ever been a staunch friend to Miles Milton. It did not fail him now. Soldier-life has usually the effect of making its devotees acutely careful to take advantage of all opportunities! He set to work on the bowlful of food with a will, and was not solicitous to ascertain what it consisted of until it was safely washed down with a draught from the jug. Being then too late to enter on an inquiry as to its nature, he contented himself with a pleasing recollection that the main body of the compost was rice, one of the constituents oil, and that the whole was by no means bad. He also wished that there had been more of it, and then resumed his previous—and only possible—amusement of meditation.
Thinking, like fighting, is better done on a full stomach! He had gradually thought himself into a more hopeful state of mind, when he was again interrupted by the entrance of visitors—two armed men, and the magnificent negro runner whom he had observed holding the Mahdi’s horse. One of the armed men carried a small bundle, which he deposited on the ground, and then stood beside his companion. Both stood like sentinels with drawn swords, ready, apparently, to obey the commands of the runner.
Advancing to the captive, the latter, producing a key, unlocked and removed his manacles. These he handed to one of the men, and, turning again to Miles, said, to his great surprise, in English—
“Undress, and put on de t’ings in bundle.”
We may here observe that up to this time Miles and his comrades in adversity had worn, day and night, the garments in which they had been captured. Our hero was not sorry, therefore, at the prospect of a change. Untying the bundle to see what substitute was given for his uniform, he found that it contained only a pair of loose cotton drawers and a red fez.
“Is this all?” he asked, in surprise.
“All,” answered the negro.
“And what if I refuse to undress?” asked Miles.
“Your clo’es will be tore off your back and you be bastinado!”
This was said so calmly, and the three grave, powerful men seemed so thoroughly capable of performing the deed, that our hero wisely submitted to the inevitable and took off his uniform, which one of the guards gathered up piece by piece as it was removed. Then he pulled on the drawers, which covered him from the waist to a little below the knees. When he had put on the red fez he found himself clothed in exactly the same costume as the runner, with the exception of a small green tippet which barely covered the top of his shoulders, and seemed to be worn rather as an ornament than a piece of clothing, though perhaps it formed a slight protection from the sun.
In this cool costume they left him, carrying away his uniform, as if more thoroughly to impress on him what uncommonly cool things they were capable of doing in the hot regions of the Soudan!
Next day Miles Milton became painfully aware of the fact that his life in captivity was not to be one of ease or idleness.
Soon after daybreak the door of his prison creaked on its ponderous hinges, and he started up from the mat on which he had slept without covering of any kind. His visitor was the Mahdi’s runner, who, after closing the door, came and sat down beside him, cross legged à la Turk and tailor.
For a brief space the handsome black stared steadily at Miles, who returned the compliment as steadily, not being sure whether curiosity or insolence lay at the foundation of the stare.
“Englishmin,” said the runner at last, “you is unfortnit.”
“I am indeed,” returned Miles; “at the same time I am fortunate in so unexpectedly finding one who recognises the fact, and who can tell me so in my own tongue. May I venture to hope that you are friendly towards me?”
“Yes; I am your friend, but my friendness can do for you not’ing. Like youself, I am captive—slave. But in my own land I was a chief, and friend of the great and good Gordon, so I is friend to all Englishmin. Once I was ’terpreter to Gordon, but the Mahdi came. I fell into his hands, and now I do run befront his horse, an’ hold de stirrup! I comes to you from the Mahdi wid bad news.”
“Indeed! But I need not wonder. You could scarcely come from him with good news. What have you to tell?”
“The Mahdi has made you his runner,” answered the negro.
“That is strange news rather than bad, is it not?”
“No; it is bad. He do dis ’cause he hate you. Somehow you has anger him. He say he will tame you. He try to tame me,” said the negro, with sudden and tremendous ferocity, “an’ him t’ink he do it! But I only waits my chance to kill him.
“Now he send me again to dirty work, an’ put you in my place to humble you—to insult you before every one, who will say, ‘Look! de bold Christin dog lick de dust now, an’ hold de Mahdi’s stirrup.’”
“This is indeed bad news. But how is it that you, who seem to be free, do not use your opportunity to escape? I saw you holding the Mahdi’s horse. It seems to be a splendid one. Why did you not jump on its back and fly?”
The runner frowned, and then, changing his mood, smiled sadly.
“You is young,” he said, “and knows not’ing. At night I am locked up like yourself. In de day-time de city is full of enemies, who all knows me. Do you t’ink dey will salute, and say, ‘Go in peace,’ to de runner of de Mahdi when he is running away with his best horse?”
“Perhaps not,” said Miles, “but I would try if I were you.”
“You will be me very soon,” returned the runner, “and you can try. I did try—twice. I was caught both times and beat near to death. But I did not die! I learn wisdom; and now I submit and wait my chance to kill him. If you is wise you begin at once to submit and wait too.”
“There is truth in what you say,” rejoined Miles, after a few minutes’ thought. “I will take your advice and submit and wait, but only till the opportunity to escape offers. I would not murder the man even if I had the chance.”
“Your words remind me of de good Gordon. He was not vengeful. He loved God,” said the runner, in a low and very different tone. “But,” he added, “Gordon was a white man. He did not—could not—understand de feelings of de black chief.”
As the last remark opened up ground which Miles was not prepared to traverse, he made no rejoinder but asked the runner what the Mahdi required of him in his new capacity.
“He require you to learn de city, so as you know how to run when you is told—an’ I is to teach you, so you come wid me,” said the runner, rising.
“But am I to go in this costume, or rather in this half-naked state?” asked Miles, rising and spreading out his hands as he looked down at his unclothed chest and lower limbs.
“You not cause for be ashamed,” replied the runner, with a nod.
This was true, for the hard travelling which Miles had recently endured, and the heavy burdens which he had borne, had developed his muscles to such an extent that his frame was almost equal to that of the negro, and a fit subject for the sculptor’s chisel.
“Your white skin will p’r’aps blister at first,” continued the runner, “but your master will be glad for dat. Here is a t’ing, however, will save you shoulders. Now, you makes fuss-rate runner.”
He took the little green tippet off his own shoulders and fastened it on those of his successor.
“Come now,” he added, “let us see how you can run.”
They passed out into the street together, and then poor Miles felt the full sense of his degradation, when he saw some of the passers-by stop to gaze with looks of hatred or contempt or amusement at the “Christian captive.”
But he had not much leisure to think or feel, for the negro ran him down one street and up another at a pace which would soon have exhausted him if, besides being a naturally good runner, he had not recently been forced to undergo such severe training. During the run his guide pointed out and named most of the chief places, buildings, and mosques.
“You will do,” said the negro, pausing at length and turning towards his companion with a look of approval, “You a’most so good as myself!”
With this compliment he proceeded to instruct the new runner in his duties, and at night Miles found himself again in his prison, ready to do full justice to his bowl of rice-compost, and to enjoy his blanket-less mat bed—if a man can be said to enjoy anything about which he is profoundly unconscious during the time of its enjoyment!
Next morning he awoke with a sensation that led him for a moment to fancy he must have gone supper-less to bed. While he was waiting impatiently for breakfast he revolved several ideas in his mind, one of which was that, come what might, he would not suffer any indignity, however gross, to get the better of him. He would take a leaf out of his friend Stevenson’s book, and bear patiently whatever was sent to him, in the hope that by so doing he might gain the good-will of his captors, and thus, perhaps, be in a better position to take advantage of any opportunity to escape that might occur.
He was very confident of his power of self-restraint, and trusted a good deal to that determination of will which
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