CHAPTER XVIII.
WHY OUR HEROES DESERT.
For some hours the caravan passed through a country which was parklike, but parched by the dry weather.
The ground was sandy, but firm, and interspersed with villages, all of which were surrounded with a strong fence of euphorbia.
The girls kept up an incessant discord on the cymbals and drums, and the men, sent by the chief of the Gondos, were so impressed with the importance of their mission that every hundred yards or so they would stop, congratulate each other, and make some wonderful salaams before they continued the journey.
At the end of the second day’s march, a tribe hostile to the Gondos was encountered.
Five or six hundred naked savages appeared, well armed with lances, having flint heads, bows and arrows, and a peculiar weapon shaped almost like a sledge hammer—one side of the flint head being sharpened to a fine point, while the other was a hammer.
One of their number stepped forward, and addressing Ibrahim asked:
“Who are you?”
“A traveler, wishing to cross the desert.”
“Do you want ivory?”
“We would hunt the elephant, and divide the spoil.”
“Where do you come from?”
Ibrahim answered proudly:
“From Persia.”
“It’s a lie!” was the emphatic reply made by the chief.
“Very well,” answered Ibrahim; “what am I?”
“A Turk.”
“Allah forbid!” muttered the Persian.
The chief pointed to Max.
“Who is he?”
“An American.”
The native had never heard of such people, and he began to think Ibrahim was making a fool of him.
The natives laughed and raised their weapons.
Ibrahim, in a loud voice, told them that they were going to be killed if they dared to touch Max; that he could cause the storm to come and the wind to blow, and advised them to ask the Gondos.
Among the few things saved from the boat in which they had made their perilous journey was a bottle of araki—a native spirit almost equal in power to proof alcohol.
Max suggested that the hostile chief should be regaled with a little of the araki, and that his friendship should be purchased that way.
The bottle was produced, but neither Ibrahim nor Max had any chance of opening it, for the hostile chief took the bottle from them, broke off the neck, and drank the contents as easily as he could have swallowed water.
“Good, good! more!” he exclaimed; but at that moment a violent storm of thunder and rain burst upon them with terrific fury.
The rain fell like a veritable cloudburst, and the natives, remembering what Ibrahim had said, ascribed the storm to Max, and fled as though ten thousand soldiers were pursuing them.
The American’s reputation was now well assured, and the musicians beat the cymbals louder than ever, while the men shouted themselves hoarse.
Max was getting tired of the assumed position, but he saw no way out of it.
One thing troubled both explorers—they were either going in the wrong direction, or the distance was greater than they had imagined.
They, however, had to submit.
They were treated as superior mortals, and oftentimes were in dilemmas from which it was difficult to extricate themselves.
One morning the deputy chief who was in command of the Gondos threw himself on his stomach in front of Max and wriggled like a snake to attract attention.
“What is it, M’Kamba?” asked Ibrahim.
“The great chief hath said it,” answered the native.
“What hath he said?”
“That the wonderful medicine man whose life could not be destroyed”—meaning Max—“must take all the cymbal girls as his wives, and his great friend, whose tongue speaketh wonders, shall take all the drummer girls as his wives.”
“Allah forbid!” ejaculated Ibrahim, under his breath.
Making an excuse that he must consult with Max, he got rid of the Gondo.
“Here is a fix we’ve got into,” said Ibrahim, when alone with his friend.
“What is it?”
“Do you know how many cymbal players we have?”
“About thirty.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Well, they are all yours.”
“Mine?”
“You have to marry them.”
“The——”
Max stopped. His thoughts evidently formed the name by which the prince of the power of the air is familiarly known, but he bit his lips and did not utter his thoughts.
“Yes; and I am to marry all the drummers.”
“What a lark!”
“Eh?”
“I said it would be fun,” answered Max.
“Do you think so?”
“Fancy, if you offended your wives, or if you wished to give them a lecture, they would seize their drums and beat such a tattoo that you would acknowledge yourself vanquished.”
Max laughed so heartily at the idea that Ibrahim almost feared for his reason.
Taking up the challenge, however, he retaliated.
“And wouldn’t your ears be split with the chorus of tinkling cymbals?”
“It is horrible. Of course you refused the honor.”
“I did not.”
“Wha-at?”
“I did not, because I dare not.”
“Why?”
“Have you never heard of the custom of the Gondos?”
“No.”
“It is this: The chief calls a favorite to him and desires to honor him. He does so by giving him one or more wives—the more wives the greater honor.”
“Indeed!”
“If the favored one declines the honor, he insults the chief.”
“Well?”
“And that can never be forgiven.”
“What do I care about that?”
“Perhaps nothing; only——”
“Don’t hesitate. You drive a fellow mad with your long pauses,” exclaimed Max, almost angrily.
“Don’t get mad, there’s a good chap. They only roast the one who insults the chief.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. It is true; ask any of them. Now I don’t want to be either roasted, baked, or boiled, so I will have to accept the drummers, only——”
Again Ibrahim paused, and Max stood staring at him, but remained silent.
“Only I shall delay as long as I can.”
“We will get out of it.”
“How?”
“Leave that to me. I will find a way.”
Before Ibrahim could ask again what plan had formulated itself in the madcap’s brain, M’Kamba, the deputy chief, came forward, and this time standing erect, said:
“We will all drink araki now.”
Ibrahim knew enough of the marriage customs of the African tribes to realize that the espousal of the girls was to take place at once, and that the drinking of the powerful araki was the outward symbol of the marriage.
“It is all over with us,” sighed Ibrahim.
“I don’t think so. Who has any araki?”
“M’Kamba must have, or he would not have suggested it.”
“Then let him bring the bottles here, and the girls shall drink first.”
“You are a mystery, Max. What do you intend doing?”
“Wait and see. Curb your impatience a little bit, there’s a good chap. Do just as I tell you, and all will be well.”
Ibrahim approached M’Kamba and told him that Max was ready to open the araki bottles, and all should drink.
“The great chief did send the araki for the wives,” answered M’Kamba, proving clearly that all had been arranged beforehand.
The bottles—made of the bladders of cows, dried—were produced, and Max very quietly, in the presence of all, poured some white liquid in each of the bottles.
Ibrahim looked on in astonishment.
“Give a good drink to each of your wives, Ibrahim, but don’t touch a drop yourself.”
“Is it poison, Max?”
“On my honor, no.”
The girls drank heartily. It was the gala day of their lives.
They were about to become brides, and they felt their importance.
While they were single they were slaves; when they were married they would become free.
It was a proud time for them, and they took deep draughts of the powerful spirit.
Then the Gondos took the bottles, and each man upheld the credit of his stomach by drinking pretty heavily.
But the spirit was too strong.
One by one the girls began to feel drowsy, and fell asleep.
Then the men followed.
In less than half an hour only Max and Ibrahim were awake.
“Now is our time; we must run for it. They won’t wake for an hour.”
“What did you give them?”
“Sleeping potion—pretty stiff dose, too.”
“What is that?”
“What your uncle uses when he wishes anyone to sleep long.”
“And you have some?”
“I had. They have it now”—pointing to the sleeping Gondos. “I took it from the great Sherif el Habib’s medicine case.”
“Oh!”
Ibrahim evidently was alarmed at the consequences of the madcap’s theft, or as he would put it, enforced borrowing.
Max laughed heartily, and suggested that they should “git up and get.”
This Yankeeism was too much for the Persian.
He began to believe that Max was really mad.
The suggestion, however, was a good one, and gathering together food, and some other stores, enough to last several days, the two young men left their escorts fast asleep and proceeded alone on their journey.
Instead of following the route M’Kamba had sketched out for them, they turned to the right, determined to follow as far as possible the course of the river until the oasis was crossed, and then to trust to their luck in finding the encampment of Sherif el Habib.