Guy in the Jungle: or, A Boy's Adventure in the Wilds of Africa. Graydon William Murray

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СКАЧАТЬ and the British newspaper correspondent could do nothing but stand off to look at each other, and then embrace again as though it were hard to believe that it was not all a dream.

      The Arabs and negroes had drawn to one side, and the big savage was wrathfully inspecting the body of the leopard.

      "Come," said Melton, plucking Guy's arm, "we will find a quiet place where we can talk in peace."

      The crowd made way for them, but before they had taken half a dozen steps the big Arab staggered forward and seized Guy by the hand.

      "You brave man," he cried. "Makar never forget."

      He kept on with many protestations of gratitude until Guy tried to withdraw in embarrassment.

      "Wait," said the Arab. "Come along. Me tell you something."

      He fairly dragged Guy back to the entrance of the tent where none could hear, and bending low he whispered in his ear:

      "Berbera no place for Inglis man this day. Better go away, quick. Heed what Makar tell you. Now go."

      He fairly pushed Guy from him, and the latter, joining Melton, who had witnessed the scene with the greatest curiosity, led the way out into the street.

      A curious crowd followed them closely for some distance, and not a word was spoken until they had turned off into a side avenue lined with low mud buildings.

      "Now," said Melton quickly, "I need not tell you, my dear fellow, what a pleasant surprise this meeting has been, but all explanation must be deferred to a more suitable time. You have made a friend and an enemy today, for Makar Makalo is the most powerful Arab in the whole Somali country, while that big negro is Oko Sain, the head chief of all the Gallas who dwell two hundred miles back from the coast. What did Makar tell you?"

      Guy repeated the Arab's warning, and Melton stood for a moment in deep thought.

      "I suspected as much," he said finally. "Never before have there been so many Arabs and Somalis from the interior at Berbera. Only yesterday a caravan of two thousand camels arrived from Harar in the Galla country. Something is wrong, I have felt certain, and now Makar confirms my fears."

      A glimmering suspicion of the truth flashed over Guy's mind at this juncture, but he hesitated to speak.

      "Now then," continued Melton, "this can mean nothing but a massacre. The only soldiers in the place are about sixty of the Bombay infantry, who were sent down here from Zaila, and as for the fortifications, they are nothing but a few mud walls. There they lie yonder," and he pointed to an English flag floating over the house-tops some distance away.

      "We are only wasting time here," he added. "We'll look about a little and then I'll decide what to do. I don't want to raise any false alarm."

      They turned back to the main avenue. The crowds still surged up and down, and the tumult seemed as harsh and discordant as ever, but the place had nevertheless undergone a change since they had left it a short time before. Little bartering was going on, and but few Arabs and Somalis were to be seen. Those on the street were mostly harmless traders from Aden and Cairo.

      "What has become of all the Arabs?" asked Guy.

      "That is just what I want to know," said Melton; "I'll soon find out, though. Walk as fast as you can now, Chutney, and look as unconcerned as possible."

      Melton led the way down the street for a little distance, and, turning into a side passage, soon stopped before a low, one-story building.

      A dark-skinned fellow clad in ordinary Egyptian costume stood in the doorway, and with a cry of surprise Guy recognized Mombagolo, Forbes' trusty savage servant, who did much good service for them when they were in Burma together.

      Their greeting was brief and hasty.

      "I have work for you, Momba," said Melton. "Something is going on in the town, I don't know just what. You can go anywhere without being suspected. Find out what you can, and then come down to the wharf. Don't return here."

      The man hastened away at once, and then Guy and Melton started for the shore.

      "I won't give any alarm at the garrison," said Forbes, as they hurried along. "I'll wait till Momba reports. I don't suppose anything is contemplated before nightfall at the earliest, and, as the troops are scattered, it would only precipitate matters if I should have them called in."

      The last bale of goods was being unloaded from the steamer when they reached the wharf. The captain and officers were smoking cigars against the rail, and catching sight of Guy, the former called out:

      "Don't forget now. Six o'clock sharp."

      Guy nodded, and followed Melton to one side, where the two sat down on a bale of cotton. Melton briefly explained how he came to be at Berbera. After his return from Burma, he had been dispatched as war correspondent of the London Post to Suakim, which town was at that time threatened by the Mahdi.

      Mombagolo, or Momba as Melton now called him, had become his faithful servant, and a week ago, the war-scare at Suakim having subsided, Melton had come to Berbera to write up the great fair for his paper.

      Then Guy, in his turn, simply stated that he had stopped off on his way to India to execute a commission at Zaila. He made no reference to the dispatches, feeling doubtful whether it would be proper or not, for a government secret is a thing of weighty importance.

      The conversation drifted to their perilous adventures in Burma, and the time passed on unheeded.

      At last Melton glanced up.

      "Do you observe how quiet it is?" he exclaimed. "And look! There are but few people in sight."

      It was indeed quiet. A dead, oppressive calm had settled on the sea; not a breeze rustled, not a ripple broke the glassy surface of the water, and from the town, instead of the loud babel of cries, came only a low murmur like a distant waterfall. A strange calm indeed, the calm that serves as precursor to the unseen storm.

      Suddenly, with startling abruptness, a rifle-shot broke the silence with its shuddering echoes. Guy and Melton sprang to their feet. The officers on the steamer crowded to the rail, up in the town dark figures ran to and fro, a soldier in bright uniform was seen speeding toward the garrison, and now plunging madly toward the wharf came a white clad figure, pursued by a howling group of Somali warriors, who brandished long spears and daggers. A shot from Melton's pistol brought them to a sudden halt, and Momba, for it was indeed he, ran a few paces and fell breathless at his master's feet.

      "What fiendishness is this?" shouted the captain furiously, from the deck of the steamer.

      Momba staggered to his knees.

      "The Arabs!" he cried. "They are coming – they have rifles – the Portuguese – he broke open long boxes – and handed out guns – Makar's men all have them – the Somalis have them – they have plenty shells – "

      Guy ground his teeth.

      "The infernal scoundrel!" he cried. "So that's what those long boxes of his contained!"

      "You mean Torres?" exclaimed Melton. "I know the villain. He is a partner of Makar Makalo's. But come. We must fight our way to the garrison."

      Alas! too late! Bang – bang, bang – bang, a fusillade of rifle-fire rang out from the town, hideous yells of triumph mingled with cries of despair and agony, and over the garrison СКАЧАТЬ