Part 40 (1/2)

With many regrets they parted from Captain Becker and his friends, and a few hours after the German flag on the garrison house faded from view the Rhine Castle was beating swiftly up the eastern coast of Africa on her two-thousand-mile trip.

CHAPTER x.x.xIX.

CONCLUSION.

On a warm, sultry evening in the latter part of May the Arabs and Somalis who hovered about the outskirts of Zaila, keeping well out of reach of the newly-erected fortifications which bristled with guns and British soldiery, heard the sweet strains of ”Rule Britannia” and ”G.o.d Save the Queen” floating over the desert.

It was the regimental band of the Ninth Lancers playing in the square of the town on the occasion of the installation of the new governor of Zaila--Colonel Conyers Gordon.

It was Colonel Gordon who had conducted the a.s.sault on the town some weeks previous, and in recognition of his valor--for the enemy had made a desperate stand--he was now the newly commissioned governor.

The official doc.u.ments had arrived that day, and the town was _en fete_, if we may use the expression; for, in addition to the native population and the soldiery, a number of visitors had come across from Aden to do honor to the brave commandant.

As the band ceased playing, Colonel Gordon appeared on the steps of the residency and briefly addressed the expectant people in a few well-chosen words.

”The tragedy of a few months ago,” he concluded, ”is still fresh in our minds. I had the honor to know Sir Arthur Ashby, an honor which many of you likewise enjoyed, and the sad fate of that brave man and his companions comes vividly to our minds tonight. I trust that I shall be enabled to discharge the duties of my office with the same unswerving fidelity.”

Colonel Gordon sat down, and the band played ”Rule Britannia.”

At that moment the Rhine Castle was dropping anchor in the harbor.

As the band ceased Colonel Gordon rose again, and the people instantly became quiet. By his side was a short, thickset man with dark, sallow features.

”I beg to call your attention,” began the colonel, ”to one who has played an important part in our recent struggle--Mr. Manuel Torres, a Portuguese, of whom I can say nothing better than that he deserves to be an Englishman. At the risk of his own life he tried to save Sir Arthur Ashby, and after suffering much at the hands of the enemy, he finally escaped in time to do us valuable service in retaking the town. As a recognition of his aid, I propose to appoint him a.s.sistant Political Resident.”

Mr. Torres bowed profoundly, and as the people evinced a decided desire to hear from him, he cleared his throat and began to speak in sleek, oily tones.

He related, with many gestures, a thrilling tale of his captivity among the Arabs, the desperate attempts he had made to save Sir Arthur and the Englishmen from slavery, and how finally he had effected his own marvelous escape.

At this point a sudden commotion on the outskirts of the crowd temporarily interrupted the speaker.

”It grieves me deeply,” he went on, ”to reflect on the sad destiny of my dear friend, Sir Arthur Ashby, and of those brave men, for whom I had the highest honor and regard. I risked my life to save them. I interceded with the Arab leader, Makar Makalo, but in vain. He was obdurate. To bring them back from slavery I would willingly lay down my life this minute. I would gladly----”

What else Mr. Manuel Torres was willing to do no one ever knew or will know. He ceased speaking abruptly, and his sallow face a.s.sumed a ghastly look.

Through the opening ranks of the people advanced a group of pale and haggard men, led by a ghastly figure with sandy side whiskers in a faded uniform that hung about his shrunken limbs.

”Bless my soul!” exclaimed this odd-looking stranger. ”It's that rascally Portuguese, Manuel Torres!”

A great silence fell on the people. For one second the Portuguese trembled like a leaf, then he turned and bolted through the residency door, shoving Colonel Gordon roughly aside in his mad haste.

”Stop him! Stop him!” roared the stranger. ”A thousand pounds to the man who takes him alive. He's the ringleader of the insurrection!”

Colonel Gordon hurried down the steps in bewildered amazement.

”What does this mean?” he demanded. ”Who are you?”

”Who am I?” shouted he of the sandy whiskers. ”Why, blast your impudence, I'm Sir Arthur Ashby, the governor of Zaila. Who the deuce are you?”