Harry Milvaine; Or, The Wanderings of a Wayward Boy

by Gordon Stables

and a bottle of sherbet [Note1]. He was fair in skin, delicate in complexion, with a mild and almostbenevolent aspect. He was unarmed, and though he wore the usual dressof an Arab gentleman, over all he wore a cloak of green camel's hair,probably denoting him to be a scion of the great prophet.

  The other Arab was tall, stately, swarthy, nay, but almost black. Hewas armed _cap-a-pie_, and ever as he spoke he strode rapidly up anddown the floor of the room. A large apartment it was, in an upper roomof a great square flat-roofed house in Brava, a village or town close bythe sea, and some distance north of the line.

  The room had no signs of luxury or even comfort about it, and no morefurniture than a gaol. The walls were of clay, and unadorned except bycreeping lizards; the one little window looked out towards the ocean,and a long reef of rocks that lay like a gigantic breakwater--from northto south--about a mile out.

  There were a few clouds in the sky that looked like gigantic ostrichfeathers; now and then these would flit across the sun, casting patchesof green shade on the otherwise blue sea.

  That a breeze was blowing, or had been blowing far away out, and faraway eastwards, was evident enough, even on the beach at Brava, for herethe breakers were as tall as trees, they came curling onwards with thefleetness of desert horses, with the strength of a thousand cataracts,then broke on the sands with a noise like thunder, retreating again in achaos of brown froth, with a hurtling, sucking sound, as if they wouldfain draw the very town itself into their grasp.

  On the beach itself "the boys" were at play.

  What was their play? What was their game? Was it football, tip-cat, ormodest marbles? Not quite.

  Just behold them in imagination, as I have done in reality. Therecannot be fewer than a hundred of those boys scattered in groups allalong the shore. Tall, lank, sharp-featured lads of all ages, fromtwelve to twenty. Naked they are except for the smallest ofcummerbunds, and the sun is glittering on their well-greased skins.

  Black? No, not quite black, rather of the colour of tarnished copper,their mouths are small and cruel-like, their features sharp andwell-defined, their eyes twinkling with ill-concealed cunning andmalice, and their heads surmounted by great hassocks of hair, in whichclay has been mixed to make it stand well out. They use clay for thesame purpose as ladies of civilisation used the perfumed bandoline.

  They are Somali Indians, of the lowest caste, if, indeed, there be anycaste among them.

  Here are two engaged in what seems a mortal combat, a deadly duel. Theyare standing confronting each other at a distance of some twenty orthirty paces. Each is armed with a little round shield, made from thehardened skin of a water buffalo's hump, and studded with big brassnails. Each holds in his hand a long and deadly-looking spear--not abroad-bladed one, this latter being only used for hand-to-hand fighting.The game is that each may hurl his spear at the other when and how hepleases. The other has either to dodge it or receive its point on thesmall strong shield. The quick, rapid, snake-like movements of thebody, and the strange but graceful attitudes assumed, are trulywonderful to behold. The agility of these Indians, their skill inparrying and strength in hurling these deadly spears if once witnessedcan never be forgotten.

  But wounds are not unfrequent, and on rare occasions a spear may piercethe body of a friendly antagonist. Blood is staunched by styptics,which Arab merchants vend them, and if a lad is slain, he does notobtain the comfort of a coroner's inquest, he is simply buried in thesand, or even exposed on the beach itself. Then at night wild dogs comeand quarrel and fight over his remains, crabs creep up out of the sea tothe awful feast, and what the dogs and crabs leave is speedily disposedof by colonies of ants. So the bones are picked clean enough; for atime they lie bleaching in the sun, till the tide comes up and graduallyburies them in the soft sand.

  Look again. Here are some half a dozen younger boys--guiltless ofclothing of any sort; they have been playing in the sea, dashing inunder the breakers with the speed of eels, and coming up far beyond insmooth but rolling water, disappearing under the surface, and remainingunder for long minutes, bobbing up again, riding in upon the verycurling sharp crests of the breakers themselves, and being floated androlled up upon the beach in the smother of surf and spume, laughing,yelling, and turning head over heels with delight. And now they arefighting with bones, or pelting each other with them, laughing andyelling as loudly as ever.

  Just one other _tableau_. Two tall youths engaged in a frenzied combatwith Somali swords, terrible-looking long knives, as broad almost as aspade. The swiftness of stroke and parry or shield is truly marvellous;but at last, as if by a single accord, the awful knives and eke theshields are cast aside, and they clutch each other with deadly grip andfierce: they fight for the throats. See, they are both rolling on thesand, but one at last is victorious, his talonlike, long bony fingershave closed upon his adversary's neck. He beats his head against thesand, till eyeballs and tongue protrude, then he slowly rises, andretreats a pace or two, still with his eyes on his supposed foe. Hefeels backwards with his hand till he touches a sword, he seizes it, andwith a yell springs forward again and stands triumphant over his fallenfellow, the deadly knife just grazing his neck. Will he strike? No,for here the combat ends. By and by the vanquished Indian lad will gaspand sigh, and presently rise, slowly and feebly, and creeping seawards,refresh himself with a dip beneath the waves.

  But to return to the room where the Arabs are.

  "They do tell me at Zanzibar," said the dark and soldier Arab, "that inEurope they place machines beneath the waves, which, if a ship do butstrike, she is blown to death and destruction. Could we not importthese? Money would not be wanting, and you, Mahmoud, have the key togood foreign society. Oh I fancy the glory of blowing up a Britishcruiser--!"

  "Talk not thus," was the reply, "nor let us even dream of forsaking theform in which our fathers fought. With sword and spear, and Allah'shelp, they conquered the North, they overran the West, and laid even themight of Spain in the dust. Let us bide our time. Long has it beendark, but the dawn will come. A prophet will arise. He will conquerthe world in Allah's name, and every man, woman, or child who adopts notthe true faith will be put to the knife."

  "Oh! these will be glorious times, Mahmoud."

  "Gloat not over them, Suliemon. It is still with the spirit of revengeyou speak. Think of future wars and executions as but necessities, thedarkness of the inevitable clouds, that will be dispelled by theglorious rising sun of peace and joy."

  "Revenge," muttered Suliemon, through his set teeth. "Curb not myfeelings, Mahmoud. They are just. Think what I have suffered fromBritish cruisers. Thrice have they run me on shore, twice have theyburned my dhows. To-day I would be wealthy but for them. Curses onthem, I say!" he thundered, half drawing his sword, and sending itringing back into the sheath again.

  "Stay, brother, stay; I will not sit and hear such exclamations. Allahis good, but tempt him not, or he may leave you to a fate worse thanthat which befel your own brother in Zanzibar."

  "Yes, my brother was hanged, hanged at the hands of those infidel dogs.Oh! Mahmoud, Mahmoud, can you wonder if I sometimes forget myself,forget your teaching, and loose grip of our religion? My wife, too,Mahmoud, chased on shore--death by jungle fever. Would you have meforget that also, Mahmoud?"

  "Yes," said Mahmoud, solemnly; "I'd have you forget even that."

  Suliemon was standing by the little window, gazing seawards, and asMahmoud spoke the last word--

  "Look, look!" he shouted, or almost yelled. "It is she--it is my dhow--deep, deep, in the water--scudding northwards before the breeze; theyare going to beach her ere she sinks--Allah! Allah be praised! I'llhave my wish!"

  He girded his sword-belt more tightly as he spoke, and, without even aword of farewell to Mahmoud, rushed out, and down the Stone stairs.They ended in a little narrow lane which conducted him to the sands.

  At once, on his appearance, all games were stopped. The boys droppedtheir bones, the young men sheathed their sw
ords and shouldered theirspears, and next minute he was surrounded. They knew by the face oftheir warlike chief he had something of much importance to communicate.

  His words were brief and to the point. "Fifty of you I want," he said."You, Saleedin," he continued, "will be captain. Be well-armed, bringirons and surf-boats, and carry with you water, boiled rice, and dates.Bid your friends farewell, the journey may be a long one.

  "Saleedin, keep along on the brow of the hill, but keep the boys out ofsight behind, keep abreast of yonder dhow, and when she is beached comequickly to me: I shall be on the shore."

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  Right well had the captain of the double-masted slave dhow--captured bythe _Bunting_--played his game. Right well and right cleverly.

  As speedily as possible the dhow had