“Perhaps it’s because I am a Blue Light,” returned the marine, with a laugh. “At all events, it is certain that whatever good there may be about me at all is the result of that Light which is as free to you as to me.”

For some minutes the couple walked along in silence. At last Rattling Bill spoke.

“I wonder,” he said, “why it is that a young and healthy fellow like me should break down sooner than you, Stevenson, for I’m both bigger and stronger—and yet, look at us new. Ain’t it strange! I wonder why it is.”

“It is strange, indeed,” returned the marine quietly. “P’r’aps the climate suits me better than you.”

“I know what you’re thinkin’,” said Simkin, almost testily. “Why don’t you say that drink is the cause of it—straight out, like a man?”

“Because I knew you were saying that to yourself, lad, so there was no need for me to say it,” returned his friend, with a side-glance and a twinkle of the eyes.

“Well, whoever says it, it’s a fact,” continued Simkin, almost sternly, “an’ I make no bones of admitting it. I have bin soakin’ away, right and left, since I came to this country, in spite o’ warnin’s from you and other men like you, and now I feel as if all my boasted strength was goin’ out at my heels.”

Stevenson was silent.

“Why don’t you say ‘I told you so?’” asked Simkin, sharply.

“Because I never say that! It only riles people; besides,” continued the marine, earnestly, “I was asking God at the moment to enable me to answer you wisely. You see, I think it only fair to reveal some of my private thoughts to you, since you are making a father-confessor of me. But as you admit that drink has done you damage, my dear fellow, there is no need for me to say anything more on that subject. What you want now is encouragement as to the future and advice as to the present. Shall I give you both just now, or shall I wait?”

“‘Commence firing!’” replied Simkin, with a half-jesting smile.

“Well, then, as to encouragement,” said Stevenson. “A point of vital importance with men who have gone in for drink as much as you have, is total-abstinence; and I regard it as an evidence of God’s love to you that He has brought you here—”

“God’s love that brought me here!” exclaimed the soldier in surprise. “Well, that is a view o’ the case that don’t seem quite plain.”

“Plain enough if you open your eyes wide enough. See here: If you was in camp now, with your present notions, and was to determine to give up drink, you’d have to face and fight two most tremendous devils. One devil is called Craving, the other is called Temptation, and all the Arabs in the Soudan rolled into one are not so terrible or so strong as these two when a man is left to fight them by himself. Now, is it not a sign of our Father’s love that he has, by bringing you here, removed the devil Temptation entirely out of your way, for you can’t get strong drink here for love or money. So, you see, you have only got Craving to fight, and that’s encouraging, ain’t it?”

“D’ye know, I believe you are not far wrong,” said Simkin, gravely; “and it is encouraging to know that Temptation’s out o’ the way, for I feel that the other devil has got me by the throat even now, and that it’s him as has weakened me so much.”

“That’s it, friend. You’ve got the truth by the tail now, so hold on; but, at the same time, don’t be too hard on Craving. It’s not his fault that he’s here. You have poured liquor down your throat to him daily, and cultivated his acquaintance, and helped him to increase his strength regularly, for many months—it may be for years. I don’t want to be hard on you, lad, but it’s of no use shiftin’ the burden on to the wrong shoulders. It is not Craving but you who are the sinner. Now, as to advice: do you really want it?”

“Well,” replied Simkin, with a “humph!” “it will be time enough for you to shut up when I sound the ‘cease firing!’”

“My advice, then, is that you go down on your knees, plead guilty straight off, and ask for grace to help you in your time of need.”

“What! go down on my knees here before all them Arabs? If I did, they’d not only laugh at me, but they’d soon rouse me up with their spears.”

“I’m not so sure about that, Simkin. Arabs are accustomed to go on their own knees a good deal in public. It is chiefly Christians who, strange to say, are ashamed to be caught in that position at odd times. But I speak not of ceremonies, but of realities. A man may go on his knees, without bending a joint, any time and everywhere. Now, listen: there is this difference between the courts of men and the court of heaven, that in the former, when a man pleads guilty, his sentence is only modified and softened, but in the latter, the man who pleads guilty receives a free pardon and ultimate deliverance from all sin for the sake of Jesus Christ. Will you accept this deliverance, my friend?”

What the soldier replied in his heart we cannot tell, for his voice was silent. Before the conversation could be resumed a halt was called, to partake of the midday meal and rest.

That evening the party came upon a strange and animated scene. It was one of the mountain camps of Osman Digna, where men were assembling from all quarters to swell the hordes with which their chief hoped to drive the hated Europeans into the Red Sea. Camels and other beasts of burden were bringing in supplies for the vast army, and to this spot had been brought the poor fellows who had been wounded in recent battles.

Here the captives were thrust into a small dark hut and left to their meditations, while a couple of Arab sentries guarded the door.

Chapter Twenty Three.
Shows that Suffering tends to draw out Sympathy

The word captivity, even when it refers to civilised lands and peoples, conveys, we suspect, but a feeble and incorrect idea to the minds of those who have never been in a state of personal bondage. Still less do we fully appreciate its dread significance when it refers to foreign lands and barbarous people.

It was not so much the indignities to which the captive Britons were subjected that told upon them ultimately, as the hard, grinding, restless toil, and the insufficient food and rest—sometimes accompanied with absolute corporeal pain.

“A merciful man is merciful to his beast.” There is not much of mercy to his beast in an Arab. We have seen an Arab, in Algiers, who made use of a sore on his donkey’s back as a sort of convenient spur! It is exhausting to belabour a thick-skinned and obstinate animal with a stick. It is much easier, and much more effective, to tickle up a sore, kept open for the purpose, with a little bit of stick, while comfortably seated on the creature’s back. The fellow we refer to did that. We do not say or think that all Arabs are cruel; very far from it, but we hold that, as a race, they are so. Their great prophet taught them cruelty by example and precept, and the records of history, as well as of the African slave-trade, bear witness to the fact that their “tender mercies” are not and never have been conspicuous!

At first, as we have shown, indignities told pretty severely on the unfortunate Englishmen. But, as time went on, and they were taken further and further into the interior, and heavy burdens were daily bound on their shoulders, and the lash was frequently applied to urge them on, the keen sense of insult which had at first stirred them into wild anger became blunted, and at last they reached that condition of partial apathy which renders men almost indifferent to everything save rest and food. Even the submissive Stevenson was growing callous. In short, that process had begun which usually ends in making men either brutes or martyrs.

As before, we must remark that Jack Molloy was to some extent an exception. It did seem as if nothing but death itself could subdue that remarkable man. His huge frame was so powerful that he seemed to be capable of sustaining any weight his tyrants chose to put upon him. And the influence of hope was so strong within him that it raised him almost entirely above the region of despondency.

This was fortunate for his comrades in misfortune, for it served to keep up their less vigorous spirits.

There was one thing about the seaman, however, which they could not quite reconcile with his known character. This was a tendency to groan heavily when he was being loaded. To be sure, there was not much reason for wonder, seeing that the Arabs forced the Herculean man to carry nearly double the weight borne by any of his companions, but then, as Miles once confidentially remarked to Armstrong, “I thought that Jack Molloy would rather have died than have groaned on account of the weight of his burden; but, after all, it is a tremendously heavy one—poor fellow!”

One day the Arabs seemed to be filled with an unusual desire to torment their victims. A man had passed the band that day on a fast dromedary, and the prisoners conjectured that he might have brought news of some defeat of their friends, which would account for their increased cruelty. They were particularly hard on Molloy that day, as if they regarded him as typical of British strength, and, therefore, an appropriate object of revenge. After the midday rest, they not only put on him his ordinary burden, but added to the enormous weight considerably, so that the poor fellow staggered under it, and finally fell down beneath it, with a very dismal groan indeed!

Of course the lash was at once applied, and under its influence the sailor rose with great difficulty, and staggered forward a few paces, but only to fall again. This time, however, he did not wait for the lash, but made very determined efforts of his own accord to rise and advance, without showing the smallest sign of resentment. Even his captors seemed touched, for one of them removed a small portion of his burden, so that, thereafter, the poor fellow proceeded with less difficulty, though still with a little staggering and an occasional groan.

That night they reached a village near the banks of a broad river, where they put up for the night. After their usual not too heavy supper was over, the prisoners were thrust into a sort of hut or cattle-shed, and left to make themselves as comfortable as they could on the bare floor.

“I don’t feel quite so much inclined for sleep to-night,” said Miles to Molloy.

“No more do I,” remarked the sailor, stretching himself like a wearied Goliath on the earthen floor, and placing his arms under his head for a pillow.

“I feel pretty well used up too,” said Simkin, throwing himself down with a sigh that was more eloquent than his tongue. He was indeed anything but Rattling Bill by that time.

Moses Pyne being, like his great namesake, a meek man, sympathised with the others, but said nothing about himself, though his looks betrayed him. Armstrong and Stevenson were silent. They seemed too much exhausted to indulge in speech.

“Poor fellow!” said Moses to Molloy, “I don’t wonder you are tired, for you not only carried twice as much as any of us, but you took part of my load. Indeed he did, comrades,” added Moses, turning to his friends with an apologetic air. “I didn’t want him to do it, but he jerked part o’ my load suddenly out o’ my hand an’ wouldn’t give it up again; an’, you know, I didn’t dare to make a row, for that would have brought the lash down on both of us. But I didn’t want him to carry so much, an’ him so tired.”

“Tired!” exclaimed the sailor, with a loud laugh. “Why, I warn’t tired a bit. An’, you know, you’d have dropped down, Moses, if I hadn’t helped ye at that time.”

“Well, I confess I was ready to drop,” returned Moses, with a humbled look; “but I would much rather have dropped than have added to your burden. How can you say you wasn’t tired when you had fallen down only five minutes before, an’ groaned heavily when you rose, and your legs trembled so? I could see it!”

To this the seaman’s only reply was the expansion of his huge but handsome mouth, the display of magnificent teeth, the disappearance of both eyes, and a prolonged quiet chuckle.

“Why, what’s the matter with you, Jack?” asked Stevenson.

“Nothin’s the matter wi’ me, old man—’cept—”

Here he indulged in another chuckle.

“Goin’ mad, with over-fatigue,” said Simkin, looking suspiciously at him.

“Ay, that’s it, messmate, clean mad wi’ over-fatigue.”

He wiped his eyes with the hairy back of his hand, for the chuckling, being hearty, had produced a few tears.

“No, but really, Jack, what is it you’re laughing at?” asked Armstrong. “If there is a joke you might as well let us have the benefit of laughing along wi’ you, for we stand much in need of something to cheer us here.”

“Well, Billy boy, I may as well make a clean breast of it,” said Molloy, raising himself on one elbow and becoming grave. “I do confess to feelin’ raither ashamed o’ myself, but you mustn’t be hard on me, lads, for circumstances alters cases, you know, as Solomon said—leastwise if it warn’t him it was Job or somebody else. The fact is, I’ve bin shammin’, mates!”

“Shamming!”

“Ay, shammin’ weak. Purtendin’ that I was shaky on the legs, an’ so not quite up to the cargo they were puttin’ aboard o’ me.”

“If what you’ve been doing means shamming weak, I’d like to see you coming out strong,” observed Miles, with a short laugh.

“Well, p’r’aps you’ll see that too some day,” returned the sailor, with an amiable look.

“But do you really mean that all that groaning—which I confess to have been surprised at—was mere pretence?”

“All sham. Downright sneakin’!” said Molloy. “The short an’ the long of it is, that I see’d from the first the on’y way to humbug them yellow-faced baboons was to circumwent ’em. So I set to work at the wery beginnin’.”

“Ah, by takin’ a header,” said Simkin, “into one o’ their bread-baskets!”

“No, no!” returned the seaman, “that, I confess, was a mistake. But you’ll admit, I’ve made no more mistakes o’ the same sort since then. You see, I perceived that, as my strength is considerable above the average, the baboons would be likely to overload me, so, arter profound excogitation wi’ myself, I made up my mind what to do, an’ when they had clapped on a little more than the rest o’ you carried I began to groan, then I began to shake a bit in my timbers, an’ look as if I was agoin’ to founder. It didn’t check ’em much, for they’re awful cruel, so I went fairly down by the head. I had a pretty fair guess that this would bring the lash about my shoulders, an’ I was right, but I got up wery slowly an’ broken-down-like, so that the baboons was fairly humbugged, and stopped loadin’ of me long afore I’d taken in a full cargo—so, you see, boys, I’ve bin sailin’ raither light than otherwise.”

“But do you mean to tell me that the load you’ve bin carryin’ is not too heavy for you?” asked Moses.

“That’s just what I does mean to tell you, lad. I could carry a good deal more, an’ dance with it. You see, they ain’t used to men o’ my size, so I was able to humbug ’em into a miscalkilation. I on’y wish I could have helped you all to do the same, but they’re too ’cute, as the Yankees say. Anyway, Moses, you don’t need to trouble your head when I gives you a helpin’ hand again.”

“Ah, that expression, ‘a helping hand,’ sounds familiar in my ears,” said Stevenson, in a sad tone.

“Yes, what do it recall, lad?” asked Molloy, extending himself again on his broad back.

“It recalls places and friends in Portsmouth, Jack, that we may never again set eyes on. You remember the Institoot? Well, they’ve got a new branch o’ the work there for the surrounding civilian poor, called the Helping Hand. You see, Miss Robinson understands us soldiers out and out. She knew that those among us who gave up drink and sin, and put on the blue-ribbon, were not goin’ to keep all the benefit to ourselves. She knew that we understood the meaning of the word ‘enlist’ That we’d think very little o’ the poor-spirited fellow who’d take the Queen’s shillin’ and put on her uniform, and then shirk fightin’ her battles and honouring her flag. So when some of us put on the Lord’s uniform—which, like that of the Austrians, is white—and unfurled His flag, she knew we’d soon be wantin’ to fight His battles against sin—especially against drink; so instead of lookin’ after our welfare alone, she encouraged us to hold out a helpin’ hand to the poorest and most miserable people in Portsmouth, an’ she found us ready to answer to the call.”

“Ah, they was grand times, these,” continued the marine, with kindly enthusiasm, as he observed that his comrades in sorrow were becoming interested, and forgetting for the moment their own sorrows and sufferings. “The Blue-Ribbon move was strong in Portsmouth at the time, and many of the soldiers and sailors joined it. Some time after we had held out a helping hand to the poor civilians, we took it into our heads to invite some of ’em to a grand tea-fight in the big hall, so we asked a lot o’ the poorest who had faithfully kept the pledge through their first teetotal Christmas; and it was a scrimmage, I can tell you. We got together more than forty of ’em, men and women, and there were about three hundred soldiers and sailors, and their wives to wait on ’em an’ keep ’em company!”

“Capital!” exclaimed Miles, who had a sympathetic spirit—especially for the poor.

“Good—good!” said Molloy, nodding his head. “That was the right thing to do, an’ I suppose they enjoyed theirselves?”

“Enjoyed themselves!” exclaimed the marine, with a laugh. “I should just think they did. Trust Miss Robinson for knowin’ how to make poor folk enjoy themselves—and, for the matter of that, rich folk too! How they did stuff, to be sure! Many of ’em, poor things, hadn’t got such a blow-out in all their lives before. You see, they was the very poorest of the poor. You may believe what I say, for I went round myself with one o’ the Institoot ladies to invite ’em, and I do declare to you that I never saw even pigs or dogs in such a state of destitootion—nothin’ whatever to lie on but the bare boards.”

“You don’t say so?” murmured Moses, with deep commiseration, and seemingly oblivious of the fact that he was himself pretty much in similar destitution at that moment.

“Indeed I do. Look here,” continued the marine, becoming more earnest as he went on; “thousands of people don’t know—can’t understand—what misery and want and suffering is going on around ’em. City missionaries and the like tell ’em about it, and write about it, but telling and writin’ don’t make people know some things. They must see, ay, sometimes they must feel, before they can rightly understand.

“One of the rooms we visited,” continued Stevenson, in pathetic tones, “belonged to a poor old couple who had been great drinkers, but had been induced to put on the blue-ribbon. It was a pigeon-hole of a room, narrow, up a dark stair. They had no means of support. The room was empty. Everything had been pawned. The last thing given up was the woman’s shawl to pay the rent, and they were starving.”

“Why didn’t they go to the work’us?” asked Simkin.

“’Cause the workhouse separates man and wife, in defiance of the Divine law—‘Whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.’ They was fond of each other, was that old man and woman, and had lived long together, an’ didn’t want to part till death. So they had managed to stick to the old home, ay, and they had stuck to their colours, for the bit o’ blue was still pinned to the tattered coat o’ the man and the thin gown o’ the woman, (neither coat nor gown would fetch anything at the pawn-shop!) and there was no smell o’ drink in the room. Well, that old couple went to the tea-fight. It was a bitter cold night, but they came all the same, with nothing to cover the woman’s thin old arms.

“The moment they appeared, away went one o’ Miss Robinson’s workers to the room where they keep chests full of clothes sent by charitable folk to the Institoot, an’ you should have seen that old woman’s wrinkled face when the worker returned wi’ the thickest worsted shawl she could lay hold of, an’ put it on her shoulders as tenderly as if the old woman had been her own mother! At the same time they gave a big-coat to the old man.”

“But, I say,” interrupted Simkin, “that Christmas feed an’ shawl an’ coat wouldn’t keep the couple for a twel’month, if they was sent home to starve as before, would it?”

“Of course not,” returned the marine, “but they wasn’t sent off to starve; they was looked after. Ay, an’ the people o’ the whole neighbourhood are now looked after, for Miss Robinson has bought up a grog-shop in Nobbs Lane—one o’ the worst places in Portsmouth—an’ converted it into a temperance coffee-house, wi’ lots of beds to send people to when the Institoot overflows, an’ a soup-kitchen for the destitoot poor, an’ a wash’us for them and the soldiers’ wives, an’, in short, it has changed the whole place; but if I go on like this I’ll send Moses to sleep, for I’ve heard ’im smotherin’ his yawns more than once a’ready!”

“It’s not for want of interest in what you’re sayin’ though, old man,” returned Moses, with a tremendous unsmothered yawn, which of course set all his comrades off, and confirmed them in the belief that it was time to seek repose.

Scarcely a single comment was made on the narrative, as each laid his weary head on his arm or on a folded garment, and stretched himself out on the hard ground, in nearly as destitute a condition as the poor folk about whom they had been hearing; for while their bed was as hard as theirs, and the covering as scant, the meal they had recently consumed was by no means what hungry men would call satisfying.

There is reason to believe, however, that their consideration of the sad lot of “the poor” at home did not render less profound or sweet that night’s repose in the great African wilderness.