Harry Milvaine; Or, The Wanderings of a Wayward Boy

by Gordon Stables

and then by the eldritch laugh of someprowling hyaena.

  For a moment thoughts of escape came into Harry's mind. He wasunfettered; he was, indeed, on a kind of parole. In so far only asthis: the Arab Mahmoud had told him he should be free from fettersunless he attempted to escape; if he did so, he would either be shotdown at once, or, if captured alive, manacled as a slave. Harry'sanswer had been bold enough.

  "I accept parole," he had said, "on those conditions, and if I attemptto escape you may shoot me."

  He sat up now and looked about him. The sentinel moved a few paces offand stood ready. But hearing his prisoner cough, and observing hisperfect nonchalance, he stood at ease once more. Harry threw himselfback. He shuddered a little, for dew was falling, and the night air waschill. Instead of sleeping it was his purpose now to think, but histhoughts soon resolved themselves into confused and ugly dreams, inwhich scenes on board ship were strangely mixed up and jumbled withthose of his life at home and at school.

  When he awoke again it was broad daylight, and all the camp was astir.

  He ate his breakfast of boiled rice and dates in silence, and shortlyafter this a start was made.

  Another long weary day.

  Another weary night.

  What the caravan suffered most from was the want of water. It was smallin quantity and of such wretched quality, being thick, dark, andsmelling, that Harry turned from his short allowance in loathing anddisgust.

  The route was ever inland, day after day. Knowing what he did of thecountry, Harry thought it strange they were following no direct road orcaravan path. Sometimes they bore a little south, at other times almostdirectly north.

  It was evident enough, however, that Mahmoud, their bold and sternleader, knew what he was about, and knew the country he was traversing,for he never failed to find water, without which a journey in thisstrange land is an impossibility.

  The thought of escaping--the wish to escape--grew and grew in Harry'smind till it formed itself into a fixed resolve.

  He would have carried it out at the earliest moment had he deemed itprudent, but there was the want of water to be considered. What goodescaping, only to perish miserably in the wilderness? He would waittill the country became less barren.

  The caravan in its route inland forded more than one broad stream. Bythe banks of these they sometimes journeyed for many miles, rested byday or camped at night.

  Where, Harry often wondered, were his poor men? What fate was theirs,and what would his own fate be?

  That he was to be sold into slavery, he had little, if any, doubt; andthe truth was rendered more patent to him one evening by overhearing aconversation in Swahili between two of the Somalis. It referred to him,and mention was repeatedly made of the name of a great chief called'Ngaloo, a name he had never heard before.

  "Perhaps," thought Harry, "my men, too, are being driven to this king'scountry, though by a different route."

  But this was improbable. Had he believed it at all likely he would havegone on patiently with his captors, and have shared the fortune of thepoor fellows, whether that might be death or slavery.

  No, he determined to escape.

  His chance came sooner than he had anticipated.

  The caravan was encamped one night by the banks of a stream--a deep andugly stream it was, its banks bordered by gigantic euphorbia trees orshrubs, so shapeless and ugly, that betwixt Harry and the moonlight theylooked living uncanny things, and it needed but little imagination onhis part to make them wave their arms and make motions that were bothfantastic and fiend-like.

  Harry was lying with his eyes half-shut looking at them when suddenlythe sentinel bent down and gazed for a moment earnestly into his face.Suspecting something, but not knowing what, he pretended to sleep,breathing heavily, with an occasional sob or sigh, but ready to springin a moment if foul play were meant.

  The sentinel now left his side and strode away on tiptoe--though withmany a stealthy backward glance--around the sleeping caravan. He wentso far as to touch several of the Somali Indians with his foot. Butwhen a Somali does sleep it takes a deal to rouse him. Seeminglysatisfied, he came back and had one other look at Harry, then walkedstraight away to the river's brink.

  He was only going to quench his thirst after all, but well he knew thatto have been found but five yards from his post would have cost him hislife. No wonder he was careful. Harry's mind was made up in a moment,and more quickly than lightning's flash. How fast one must think onoccasions like the present! He sprang lightly but silently to his feetthe very moment he saw the Somali deposit his rifle and shot-belt on thebank and bend down towards a pool.

  Next minute Harry, exerting all his young strength, had seized and flunghim far into the stream.

  A plash by night in an African river is but little likely to awake anyone encamped by its banks. So far Harry was safe, but would the Indiangive the alarm?

  He did not wait to think, he only snatched up the weapons and theshot-belt and darted away like a red deer swiftly along the riverside.He wondered to hear no shout.

  The truth is, the Somali sentinel feared to give it; to him it wouldhave meant death, whatever it might be to Harry.

  But looking round shortly, he was hardly surprised to find he was hotlypursued by the sentinel. He ran on for about two hundred yards farther,and, on looking round again, he noticed that the Somali was fast gainingon him. So Harry stopped.

  His Highland blood was up.

  "I won't run from one man," he said, "neither will I kill him; I'll givehim a throw, though, if he likes, after the manner of Donald Dinnie."

  So he stood and waited.

  He had not long to wait. The Indian had divested himself of the linenjacket he wore, and next moment confronted him, panting, but withgleaming eyes and on murder intent. That is, murder if he could manageit quietly.

  "Halt!" cried Harry, in Swahili, as he came to the charge. "No farther,or you die!"

  The rest of his speech to the Somali he continued, partly in Swahili,partly in English, the former language being rather meagre inphraseology. But this is the gist of what he did say:

  "I could kill you if I liked. It would be mean, however. Now take yourtime and get your breath, then if you like I'll give it to you Englishfashion."

  He paused, and the Somali stood there glaring and foaming with fury.

  After a minute--

  "Time's up," said Harry, and, taking two or three paces to the rear, hethrew rifle and shot-belt on the ground; then, pointing to them--

  "Touch these, my friend, if you dare," he said.

  No two biddings did the Somali require. He sprang towards the rifle assprings the jungle cat on its prey. Harry's blow was finely planted,and I am sure that Indian must have imagined, for the time being, thatthere were considerably more stars in the sky than ever he had seenbefore.

  He rose and flew at Harry. He flew but to fall, and he rose and roseagain, only to fall and fall again!

  Harry could not help admiring his pluck.

  He was conquered at last, though.

  Then, getting up, half stunned, from the grass, he extended his armstowards Harry.

  "Kill me," he said, "kill me, but not thus. Kill me with the Englishsword, for if I go back to my people without my prisoner, they will killme with fire."

  "Come to think of it, my good fellow," said Harry, "there need be nokilling in the matter. You can't go back. Come with me. The tablesare turned: _you_ shall now be the slave, _I_ the master. I will begood and kind to you if you are faithful; if not, I will let thedaylight into you."

  The reply of the savage was affecting enough. He bowed himself to theearth first; then, still on his knees, took Harry's right hand and benthis head until his brow touched it.

  "That will do, my good fellow. I don't care for palaver, you know. Butlet us have action. Now you shall prove how far you are willing toserve me. Go back to your fellows, a rascally crew they are, and fetchanother rifle and more ammunition, and just a
little provisions if youcan."

  The Somali knew what he meant, even if he did not understand preciselyall that was said.

  He was up and away in a moment.

  Harry Milvaine waited and listened. He thought the time would neverpass. Would the Somali be true or be treacherous? He might rouse hissleeping companions, and, while he was still standing here in the broadstaring light of the moon, stealthily surround and re-capture him.

  The very thought made him change his ground. He drew himself away underthe shade of some mimosa trees and waited there.

  At last a single figure, armed with a rifle and carrying a bag, drew upin the clearing that Harry had left, and looked about him in somesurprise. It was Harry's ex-foe.

  Harry soon joined him.

  "You have stayed long," he said.

  "I have plenty of ammunition, something to eat, and the rifle, and--"

  "Well, and what else?"

  "Nothing