miles is promoted—molloy overthrows the mahdi, and is elevated for so doing.
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 we have before referred to as being one of his characteristics. that same day his powers were severely tested.
all the morning he was left in his prison to fret in idleness, but towards the afternoon he was called by his friend the ex-runner to go out to his work.
“do what you is told an’ hold you tongue, an’ keep your eyes on de ground. dems my advice,” said the negro, as he resigned the bridle of the mahdi’s steed to his successor, and placed the lance of office in his hand.
just as he did so the mahdi came out of a door-way and advanced towards them, while the negro retired and mingled with the crowd which had assembled to see the chief mount his horse.
miles tried faithfully to attend to his friend’s injunctions, but could not resist one glance at his new master, which showed him that a cynical smile rested on his swarthy countenance, a smile which he also observed was copied by those of the crowd who did not prefer to regard him with scowling looks—for the people of the soudan were, naturally enough, filled with indignation against all europeans, and especially against the british, at that time.
the glance did not improve miles’s state of mind, nevertheless he forced himself to look at the ground with an utterly expressionless face, as he held the mahdi’s stirrup. he received a slight push from his master’s foot instead of thanks when he had mounted, but miles resolutely kept his eyes on the ground and restrained his rising wrath, ignorant of the fact that the mahdi wished to point out the direction in which he was to run.
a smart blow from the riding-switch on his naked back aroused him to his duty, and caused a slight laugh among the onlookers.
never before, perhaps, was the mahdi so near his end as at that moment, for, as our hero felt the sting, and heard the low laugh, all the blood in his body seemed to leap into his brow, and the lance of office quivered as his hand tightened on it. the fact that two guards with drawn swords stood at his side, and that their weapons would have been in his heart before he could have accomplished the deed, would probably have failed to restrain him had not his pride of purpose, as we may style it, come to his aid. he looked up, with a frown indeed, but without uttering a word. the mahdi pointed along one of the streets, and miles instantly bounded away—heartily glad to be able to let off his superfluous feeling in violent action.
for several hours his master kept him running—evidently on purpose to try his powers, as a jockey might test the qualities of a new horse, and, strong though he was, the poor youth began at last to feel greatly distressed, and to pant a good deal. still his pride and a determination not to be beaten sustained him.
at one point of his course he was passing a band of slaves who were labouring to lift a large beam of wood, when the sound of a familiar voice caused him to look up, and then he saw his friend jack molloy, in costume like his own, minus the fez and tippet, with one of his great shoulders under the beam, and the sweat pouring down his face.
“hallo, miles!” exclaimed the seaman.
but our hero did not dare to pause, and could not speak. his glancing aside, however, had the effect of causing him to stumble, and, being too much exhausted at the time to recover himself, he fell heavily to the ground. as he slowly rose up, half-stunned, the mahdi could scarcely avoid riding him down. as it was, he stooped, and, a second time laid his riding-switch smartly on the poor youth’s naked shoulders.
jack molloy, who saw the cruel act, lost all control of himself, uttered one of his leonine roars, sprang into the middle of the road, and seized the reins of the mahdi’s horse. the startled animal reared and attempted to swerve. molloy assisted the swerve by a violent side-pull at the reins. at the same time he caught one of the upraised forelegs, and, with an almost superhuman exertion of strength hurled both horse and rider to the ground!
a very howl of consternation and amazement burst from the populace as they beheld their mahdi lying flat and motionless on his back as if dead!
of course jack molloy was instantly seized by an overpowering number of soldiers, bound hand and foot, and carried back to his dungeon, while the mahdi was tenderly raised and conveyed to the house which he inhabited at that time.
miles had also been seized and dragged somewhat violently back to his prison. as for the other members of the captive band, none of them were there at the time. they were all separated at the time our hero was taken from them, and each remained for a considerable time in ignorance of the fate of his fellows. we may say at once here that they were all put to severe and menial labour. each also had his uniform exchanged for a pair of arabian drawers, and a felt cap or a fez, so that they were little better than naked. this would have mattered little—the weather being very warm—if their skins had been accustomed to the powerful rays of a tropical sun. but the effect on them was so severe that their taskmasters, in an unwonted gush of pity, at last gave them each a loose garment of sacking, which served as a partial protection.
after the incident which has just been related, miles was permitted to remain during the rest of that day and night in his room. not so jack molloy. the anger of the populace was so powerfully aroused against the impetuous sailor that they clamoured for his instant execution, and at last, unable or unwilling to resist the pressure of public opinion, the officers in charge of him gave in. they put a rope round his neck, and led him to a spot where criminals were wont to be executed.
as he went along and saw only scowling faces whenever he looked round in the hope of meeting some pitying eye, the poor man began to feel convinced that his last hour had in very truth arrived.
“well, well, who’d ha’ thowt it would ever come to this?” he sighed, shaking his head mournfully as he came in sight of the place of execution. “but, after all, ye richly desarve it, john molloy, for you’ve bin a bad lot the greater part o’ your life!”
again he looked on either side of him, for hope was strongly enshrined in his broad bosom, but not a friendly or even pitiful face could he see among all the hundreds that surrounded him.
arrived at the place, he glanced up at the beam over his head, and for one moment thought of trying, like samson, to burst the bonds that held him; but it was only for a moment. the impossibility of freeing himself was too obvious. he meekly bowed his head. another instant and the rope tightened round his neck, and he felt himself swinging in the air.
before his senses had quite left him, however, he felt his feet again touch the ground. the choking sensation passed away, and he found himself supported by two men. a burst of mocking laughter then proved to the wretched man that his tormentors had practised on him the refined cruelty of half-hanging him. if he had had any doubt on this subject, the remark of the interpreter, as he afterwards left him in his cell to recover as best he might, would have dispelled it—
“we will ’ang you dead de nex’ time!”
