Scarcely was it said when in the midst of the continual din, a third voice added in the same tones, a howl: "It's necessary to take away your prisoners until the end of the trees."
Well, now it's English! Versed in the language of Shakespeare, I at once realized what this unidiomatic sentence (not I think, spoken by an Englishman)really means: we are to be taken beyond the copse. Then Lieutenant Lacour (I suppose)asks:
"Which way?"
"Towards Kourboussou," cries the stepson of perfidious Albion.
"How far?" asked the lieutenant.
"Circa venti chilometri," yells a fourth voice.
A latinist such as myself can easily guess that these three words are Italian and means about twenty kilometers. Are we in the land of the linguists then, or, at least, in the backwoods of Babel?
However this may be, Lieutenant Lacour replies:
"All right, I'll set off at dawn," and nobody takes any more notice of me. I stay where I am, flat on my back, bound, seeing nothing, hardly able to breathe, in the not over comfortable cowl into which I've been stuffed.
At the lieutenant's reply, the roaring at once doubles its volume, only to decrease in strength and at last die away. In a few minutes it can no longer be heard.
Whatever makes that strange uproar? Of course, my gag keeps me from getting into touch with the others, and it is only to myself that I put the question, to which, naturally, there comes no reply.
Time passes. After an hour or more two men grab hold of me, one by the feet and the other by the shoulders, swing me to and fro for a moment and then throw me like a sack of corn across a saddle, with the pommel digging me in the back, on a horse which sets off at a gallop.
Never had I thought, even in my most fantastic dreams, that I should one day play the part of Mazeppa in the heart of Africa, and I ask you to believe that thinking about the prowess of that Cossack has never kept me awake.
I was wondering if I should end by getting out of it as he did, and if it would be my fate to become hetman of the Bambaras when a half drunken voice, coming from a throat which must have been rinsed with paraffin, said in a way to make the flesh creep:
"Take care, old bloody toad! If you budge, this revolver shall hinder you to begin again."
That's twice that I've been given the same advice, always in the same barbarous English and with the same exquisite politeness. This is luxury!
Around me there's the sound of furious galloping, and sometimes I can hear dull groans; my companions, no doubt, they must be as badly off as I am. Because I'm very badly off, indeed! I'm stifling, and the blood's running to my head. I feel it's going to burst, my poor head which hangs so piteously over the right flank of the horse, while at every stride my feet are beating a tattoo against its left flank.
After about an hour of this mad rush, the cavalcade suddenly halts. I'm lifted from the horse, or rather I'm thrown to earth like a bundle of old rags. A few seconds pass, then faintly enough, for I'm three parts dead, I can hear an exchange of words:
(A stirring poem, Mazeppa's Ride, describes the emotions of Ivan Stepanovitch Mazeppa, a Ukrainian, when, having offended a nobleman, he was bound to the back of a fiery untamed steed which was then turned loose to gallop over the Steppes. Mazeppa was however rescued by the Cossacks and rose to be their hetman (Military commander)—i.o.e.)
"She is died"
"No Elt solamenta svenita." ("No, she's only fainted.")
"Unwrap her," orders, in French, the voice which I attribute to Lieutenant Lacour, "and unwrap the doctor as well."
"This woman.... Is Miss Blazon in danger?"
I feel myself released from the sack and gag which kept me from seeing and breathing. Do my executioners fancy, by any chance, that under these somewhat unattractive toilet articles they're going to find Dr. Chatonnay? Yes, that's just why they busied themselves with my humble person, for as soon as they realized their mistake:
"That isn't him. Get the other!" says the chief, who as I suspected is indeed Lieutenant Lacour.
I look at rum, and I silently utter the most frightful curses. To think I took him for a French officer! . . . Admittedly, I can truthfully say, on my word of honour, that I had suspected the trick from the outset. But I had only suspected it, and not unmasked the bandit under his borrowed plumes. That, as I explained, I've paid for with my head, and it drives me mad. Oh, the scum! ... If ever I get hold of him!
Just then someone comes up and speaks to him, so I hear his real name: Captain Edward Rufus. Captain, indeed! He could be a general, and I shouldn't think any the better of him.
While he's talking, Captain Rufus has given up paying attention to me. I take the opportunity of breathing. It is time. A little more, and I should have been asphyxiated. That must be obvious, and I seem to have turned purple, for the captain, having thrown a glance at me, gives an order which I cannot understand. I'm at once searched. They take my weapons, and my money, but they leave my note-book. These brutes don't realize the value of copy signed "Amedee Florence." Good heavens, what ignorant thieves I'm dealing with!
But the stupid brutes untie my arms and legs, and I can move. I take advantage of this without hesitation, and examine my surroundings.
What first attracts my attention are ten . . . what? . . . ten . . . machines, ten, hum! things . . . systems . . . ten objects, in short, for devil take me if I can make out what they're for, and they look like nothing I've ever seen.
Imagine a fairly broad platform supported by two large skates turned up at one end. From dris platform rises a pylon of trellis four by five meters high; halfway up there's a screw of two blades and at its top two. . . . (There, it's beginning again, and I can't find appropriate words) two . . . arms, two . . . planes, no, I've got the word, for the object in question looks like a gigantic heron perched on one leg, with two wings (that's just it) two wings in gleaming metal with a total span of about six yards. As I can see, there are ten mechanisms conforming to this description ranged in battle array one beside the other. What ever can they be for?
When I'm satiated with this spectacle, I see that the company around us is fairly large.
First of all there's ex-lieutenant Lacour, recently promoted to the rank of Captain Rufus; the two former sergeants of our second escort, whose correct rank I do not know; their twenty black Tirailleurs, most of whom I recognize; and finally ten whites whom I've never seen before, who look rather like gallows birds. If our society is numerous. I don't think it very choice.
In the middle of these gentry are my companions. They are all here, Miss Blazon is stretched on the ground. She is deathly white. Dr. Chatonnay and Malik, who is weeping copiously, are lavishing care upon her. Near her I can see St. Berain, sitting on the ground and painfully regaining his breath. He's in a pitiable state. His bare skull is a brick red, and his great eyes seem to be staring out of their orbits. Poor St. Berain!
Mssrs. Barsac and Poncin seem in better condition. They are standing, and exercising their joints. Why shouldn't I do likewise then?
But I can't see Tongane anywhere. Where can he be? Was he killed in the attack upon us? That's only too likely, and perhaps that's why Malik is sobbing so loudly. I, too, feel distressed, and I give a pitiful thought to the brave and faithful Tongane.
I get up and go towards Miss Blazon, without anyone saying anything to me. My legs are stiff, and I cannot move quickly. Captain Rufus precedes me.
"How's Mademoiselle Mornas?" he asks Dr. Chaton-nay.
Of course. Ex-lieutenant Lacour knows our fair comrade only under her borrowed name.
"Better," the doctor tells him. "Look she's opening her eyes."
"Can we get away?" asks the so-called captain.
"Not for an hour," Dr. Chatonnay declares firmly, "and what's more, unless you want to kill the lot of us, I advise you to adopt less barbarous methods than those you've been using so far."'
Captain Rufus goes off without a reply. I walk up after him, and cxmfirm that Miss Blazon is indeed returni
ng to herself. Soon, helped by Dr. Chatonnay, who was kneeling beside her, she gets up. Then M. Barsac and M. Poncin come to join us. We are complete.
"Forgive me, my friends!" Miss Blazon says suddenly, great tears flowing from her eyes. "It was I who dragged you into this frightful predicament. But for me, you would still be safe...."
We protest, as might well be supposed, but Miss Blazon goes on accursing herself and begging our pardon. Not being much given to self-pity, I think that these words are useless, and that it would be better to turn the conversation.
As Miss Blazon was known simply under the name of Momas, I suggest it would be better to let her keep that pseudonym. Is it impossible, indeed, that there might be some of her brother's onetime followers among these rascals around us? If so, what's the use of incurring further damage, whatever it may be? This is approved unanimously. It is agreed that Miss Blazon will become Mlle Momas, as before.
It's time we arrived at that conclusion, for our talk is suddenly interrupted. At a curt order from Captain Rufus, wre are brutally seized. Three men devote themselves to my humble person. Once more I am trussed up and that disgusting sack again shuts me off from the outer world. Before I'm quite blindfolded, I realize that my companions, including Miss Blazon (I beg her pardon. Mlle Mornas) are undergoing the same treatment. Then, as before, I'm carried off. . . . Am I going to resume that little horse ride after the style of Mazeppa?
No. I am dumped face downwards on some hard flat surface which doesn't at all resemble a horse's hide. Several minutes pass and I hear something like wings beating violently, while the surface which supports me begins to sway gently in all directions. This lasts a moment, then suddenly it's deafening. That famous roaring, but five times, ten times, a hundred times as loud, and then comes the wind striking me with an amazing force which increases from second to second. At the same time I have the feeling . . . how can I put it? . . . the feeling of being in a lift....or more precisely in a scenic railway, when the car rushes up and down artificial hills, when breathing is cut short, and the heart is seized with indescribable pain... . . Yes, that's it, it's something of that sort I can feel.
This feeling lasts for perhaps five minutes, then, bit by bit, my body regains its usual equilibrium. At last, I declare, my head buried in that cursed sack, deprived of air and fight, lulled by that roaring, which has now become regular, I think I must have fallen asleep.
A sudden surprise arouses me. One of my hands has moved. Yes, my bonds, insecurely fastened, have worked loose, and an unconscious effort has separated my hands.
At first I take care to keep still, for I'm not alone, as I learn from two voices howling through the surrounding din. Two people are talking. One speaks English, but in a voice so harsh it might have come from a gullet scared by alcohol. The other answers in the same language, but with a fantastic grammar, and mingled with words which I cannot understand. I guess they must come from the Bambara, for I often heard similar sounds during my four months in this lovely country. One of the two conversationalists is a true Englishman, the other is a Negro. I can understand things less and less. Not that that matters, however. Whatever the colour of my guardians, the smallest movement of the sack must not let them suspect I've partly regained my freedom.
Slowly, carefully, I tug at my bonds, which gradually slide off my fists. Slowly, prudently, I succeed in moving my newly freed hands along my body.
That's what I've done. Now I've got to see.
I've got something that will help me. In my pocket is a knife . . . no, not a knife, a penknife. It's so small that it eluded my captors, but though I couldn't use it as a weapon, it's large enough to open a tiny window in this stifling sack. Now I've got to get hold of it without attracting attention.
After a quarter of an hour of patient effort, I succeed.
Thus armed, I bring my right hand up to the level of my face, and pierce the sack.
Heavens! . . . What can I see! ... I could only just keep back a cry of surprise. My eyes, facing towards the ground, see it at an enormous distance below, more than five hundred yards I should think. The truth flashes upon me. I am in a flying machine, which is carrying me through the air with the speed of an express train, or perhaps even faster.
Hardly are they open when my eyes close. A shudder runs through me from head to heels. Under the impact of that surprise, I don't mind admitting I'm scared.
When my heart regains its regular beat, I can observe more calmly. The ground is rushing dizzily below my eyes. What speed are we making? A hundred, two hundred, miles an hour? More? Whatever the answer, the soil is that of the desert, sand mixed with pebbles, with fairly numerous clumps of dwarf palm trees. A depressing country.
And yet I should have thought it would be worse. The dwarf palms are a bright green, and grass is growing abundantly between the pebbles. Contrary to general belief, does it rain sometimes in the desert?
Now and again I can make out, when they're below me, other contrivances like the one I'm in. My ears tells me that others are still higher. It is a flight of mechanical birds travelling through space. Serious though my position is, I get enthusiastic. It's a splendid sight, after all, and whoever our enemies may be, they are no ordinary people, those who have realized the ancient legend of Icarus in so masterly a fashion.
My field of view is not very great; so far as I can make out, thanks to slight movements which my guardians do not notice, I am looking between the plates of a metallic platform which restricts my view on eveiy side. Because of our height, however, the view is fairly wide.
But here the country's changing. After about an hour's flight, I can suddenly see palm trees, meadows, gardens. It's an oasis, but a fairly small one, only about a yard across. No sooner do they appear than they vanish. But scarcely have we left one behind when another rises over the horizon before us, then after that there's a third, above which we're passing like a tornado.
Each of these oases only contains one house. A man comes out, attracted by the noise of our aerial apparatus. I don't see anybody else. Have these islets got only the one inhabitant?
Then a new problem confronts me, more insoluble still. Beyond the first oasis, our flying machine follows a line of posts spaced out so regularly that I imagine them joined by a wire. I must be dreaming. The telegraph (unless it's the telephone)in the open desert?
After we pass the third oasis another, much more important, rises before us. I can see trees, not only palm-trees but several others, looking like karites, baobabs, acacias. I can also see cultivated fields, splendidly cultivated indeed, where a number of Negroes are working. Then walls rise above the horizon towards which we are rushing. It's an unknown city we are approaching, for here's our fairy-bird starting to descend. Now here we are above it. It is only a moderately sized town but how queer! I can clearly make out semi-circular concentric streets, laid out on a rigorous plan. The central part is almost deserted, and at this time of day contains only a few Negroes who hide in their huts when they hear theroaring of our machines. In the outer part, on the other hand, inhabitants are not lacking. They are whites who are looking upwards, and who (God forgive me) seem to be shaking their fists at us. I vainly ask myself what we've done to them.
But the machine carrying me descends more quickly. We cross a narrow river, then all at once I feel that we're falling like a stone. We're really describing a spiral which makes me feel sick. My heart is rising into my mouth. Where am I going? ...
No, the roaring of the screw has stopped and our machine has touched down. For a few yards it glides over the surface with decreasing speed and then it stops.
A hand grasps the sack around my head and pulls it off. I have only just time to replace the bonds on my hands.
The sack removed, my limbs are freed. But whoever lets me loose has seen the trick.
"Who is the damned dog's son that has made this knot?" asks a drink laden voice.
As you might think, I take care not to reply.
After my hands, my f
eet are unbound. I move them with a certain pleasure.
"Get upl" comes an authoritative order from someone I cannot see.
I don't ask to do anything else, but to obey is not easy. After the circulation of the blood has been checked so long, my limbs refuse to act. After a few fruitless attempts, I manage to succeed and I give a first glance at my surroundings.
Not very gay, the landscape. Before me is a high wall devoid of the smallest opening, and in the opposite direction the view is exactly identical. The same thing to my left. The scenery is not much diversified, to put it mildly! None the less, above the third wall I can see some sort of tower and a tall chininey. Can it be a factory? Is it possible, in fact I think anything possible, except to imagine the use of that interminable pylon which rises and rises perhaps a hundred yards above the tower.
To my right the view is different but no more alluring. I count two huge buildings, and in front of them is a great construction, a kind of fortress with outworks and crenellations.
My comrades in captivity are all here, unfortunately except for Tongane and except also for Malik, though she was present at this morning's halt. What's become of them?
Not having had, like myself, the advantage of enjoying a window opening on the countryside, my friends must be inconvenienced by the light. They can't see very much, for they keep blinking their eyes and rubbing them hard.
They are still rubbing them when a hand falls on the shoulder of each of us. We're dragged off, we're shoved, we are bewildered, discouraged.. ..
What do they want with us, and where the devil are we?
Alas! A minute later and we're in prison.
CHAPTER III
A DESPOT
(From the note-book of Amedee Florence)
26th March, Here I am then in prison. After having played Mazeppa, I'm playing Silvio Pellico.(An Italian playwright and poet, a friend of Lord Byron; he wrote an account of the ten years' imprisonment which he suffered through being involved in a secret society, the Carbonari—i.o.e.)