BY A. CONAN DOYLE
It was in the days when the tide of Mahdism,
which had swept in such a flood from the
Great Lakes and Darfur to the confines of
Egypt, had at last come to its full, and even
begun, as some hoped, to show signs of a
turn. At its outset it had been terrible. It
had engulfed Hicks's army, swept over Gordon
and Khartoum, rolled behind the British forces
as they retired down the river, and finally cast up a
spray of raiding parties as far north as Assouan.
Then it found other channels to east and west, to
Central Africa and to Abyssinia, and retired a little
on the side of Egypt. For ten years there ensued a
lull, during which the frontier garrisons looked out
upon those distant blue hills of Dongola. Behind
the violet mists which draped them lay a land of
blood and horror. From time to time some adventurer
went south towards those haze-girt mountains, tempted by stories
of gum and ivory, but none ever returned. Once a mutilated Egyptian
and once a Greek woman, mad with thirst and fear, made their way
to the lines. They were the only exports of that country of darkness.
Sometimes the sunset would turn those distant mists into a bank of
crimson, and the dark mountains would rise from that sinister reek
like islands in a sea of blood. It seemed a grim symbol in the southern
heaven when seen from the fort-capped hills by Wady Halfa. Ten
years of lust in Khartoum, ten years of silent work in Cairo, and then
all was ready, and it was time for Civilisation to take a trip south
once more, travelling as her wont is in an armoured train. Everything
was ready, down to the last pack-saddle of the last camel, and
yet no one suspected it, for an unconstitutional Government has its
advantage. A great administrator had argued, and managed, and
cajoled; a great soldier had organised and planned, and made piastres
do the work of pounds. And then one night these two master spirits
met and clasped hands, and the soldier vanished away upon some
business of his own. And just at that very time, Bimbashi Hilary
Joyce, seconded from the Royal Mallow Fusiliers, and temporarily
attached to the Ninth Soudanese, made his first appearance in Cairo.
Napoleon had said, and Hilary Joyce had noted, that great
reputations are only to be made in the East. Here he was in the
East with four tin cases of baggage, a Wilkinson sword, a Bond's
slug-throwing pistol, and a copy of "Green's Introduction to the
Study of Arabic." With such a start, and the blood of youth running
hot in his veins, everything seemed easy. He was a little frightened
of the general; he had heard stories of his sternness to young officers,
but with tact and suavity he hoped for the best. So, leaving his effects
at "Shepherd's Hotel," he reported himself at headquarters. It was
not the general, but the head of the Intelligence Department who
received him, the chief being still absent upon that business which
had called him. Hilary Joyce found himself in the presence of a short,
thick-set officer, with a gentle voice and a placid expression which
covered a remarkably acute and energetic spirit. With that quiet
smile and guileless manner he had undercut and outwitted the most
cunning of Orientals. He stood, a cigarette between his fingers,
looking at the newcomer. "I heard that you had come. Sorry the
chief isn't here to see you. Gone up to the frontier, you know."
"My regiment is at Wady Halfa. I suppose, sir, that I should
report myself there at once?"
"No; I was to give you your orders." He led the way to a map
upon the wall, and pointed with the end of his cigarette. "You see
this place. It's the Oasis of Kurkur—a little quiet, I am afraid, but
excellent air. You are to get out there as quick as possible. You'll
find a company of the Ninth, and half a squadron of cavalry. You will
be in command."
Hilary Joyce looked at the name, printed at the intersection of two
black lines without another dot upon the map for several inches around
it. "A village, sir?"
"No, a well. Not very good water, I'm afraid, but you soon get
accustomed to natron. It's an important post, as being at the junction
of two caravan routes. All routes are closed now, of course, but still
you never know who might come along them."
"We are there, I presume, to prevent raiding?"
"Well, between you and me, there's really nothing to raid. You
are there to intercept messengers. They must call at the wells. Of
course you have only just come out, but you probably understand
already enough about the conditions of this country to know that
there is a great deal of disaffection about, and that the Khalifa is
likely to try and keep in touch with his adherents. Then, again,
Senoussi lives up that way"—he waved his cigarette to the westward—"the
Khalifa might send a messenger to him along that route. Anyhow,
your duty is to arrest every one coming along, and get some
account of him before you let him go. You don't talk Arabic, I
"I am learning, sir."
"Well, well, you'll have time enough to study there. And you'll
have a native officer, Ali something or other, who speaks English,
and can interpret for you. Well, good-bye—I'll tell the chief that you
reported yourself. Get on to your post now as quickly as you can."
Railway to Baliani, the post-boat to Assouan, and then two day
on a camel in the Libyan desert, with an Ababdeh guide, and three
baggage-camels to tie one down to their own exasperating pace.
However, even two and a half miles an hour mount up in time, and
at last, on the third evening, from the blackened slag-heap of a hill
which is called the Jebel Kurkur, Hilary Joyce looked down upon a
distant clump of palms, and thought that this cool patch of green in
the midst of the merciless blacks and yellows was the fairest colour
effect that he had ever seen. An hour later he had ridden into the little
camp, the guard had turned out to salute him, his native subordinate
had greeted him in excellent English, and he had fairly entered into his
own. It was not an exhilarating place for a lengthy residence. There
was one large, bowl-shaped, grassy depression sloping down to the three
pits of brown and brackish water. There,
also, was the grove of palm trees beautiful
to look upon, but exasperating in view
of the fact that Nature has provided her
least shady trees on the very spot where
shade is needed most. A single wide-spread
acacia did something to restore the balance.
Here Hilary Joyce slumbered in the heat,
and in the cool he inspected his square-shouldered,
with their cheery black faces and their
funny little pork-pie forage caps. Joyce
was a martinet at drill, and the blacks
loved being drilled, so the Bimbashi was
soon popular among them. But one day
was exactly like another. The weather,
the view, the employment, the food—everything was the same. At
the end of three weeks he felt that he had been there for interminable
years. And then at last there came something to break the monotony.
One evening, as the sun was sinking, Hilary Joyce rode slowly
down the old caravan road. It had a fascination for him, this narrow
track, winding among the boulders and curving up the nullahs, for he
remembered how in the map it had gone on and on, stretching away
into the unknown heart of Africa. The countless pads of innumerable
camels through many centuries had beaten it smooth, so that now,
unused and deserted, it still wound away, the strangest of roads, a foot
broad, and perhaps two thousand miles in length. Joyce wondered as
he rode how long it was since any traveller had journeyed up it from the
south, and then he raised his eyes, and there was a man coming along
the path. For an instant Joyce thought that it might be one of his own
men, but a second glance assured him that this could not be so. The
stranger was dressed in the flowing robes of an Arab, and not in the
close-fitting khaki of a soldier. He was very tall, and a high turban
made him seem gigantic. He strode swiftly along, with head erect,
and the bearing of a man who knows no fear.
Who could he be, this formidable giant coming out of the
unknown? The precursor possibly of a horde of savage spearmen.
And where could he have walked from? The nearest well was a long
hundred miles down the track. At any rate the frontier post of Kurkur
could not afford to receive casual visitors. Hilary Joyce whisked round
his horse, galloped into camp, and gave the alarm. Then, with twenty
horsemen at his back, he rode out again to reconnoitre. The man was
still coming on in spite of these hostile preparations. For an instant he
hesitated when first he saw the cavalry, but escape was out of the
question, and he advanced with the air of a man who makes the best of
a bad job. He made no resistance, and said nothing when the hands
of two troopers clutched at his shoulders, but walked quietly between
their horses into camp. Shortly afterwards the patrol came in again.
There were no signs of any dervishes. The man was alone. A splendid
trotting camel had been found lying dead a little way down the track.
The mystery of the stranger's arrival was explained. But why, and
whence, and whither?—these were questions for which a zealous officer
must find an answer.
Hilary Joyce was disappointed that there were no dervishes. It
would have been a great start for him in the Egyptian army had he
fought a little action on his own account. But even as it was, he had
a rare chance of impressing the authorities. He would love to show his
capacity to the head of the Intelligence, and even more to that grim
chief who never forgot what was smart, or forgave what was slack.
The prisoner's dress and bearing showed that he was of importance.
Mean men do not ride pure-bred trotting camels. Joyce sponged his
head with cold water, drank a cup of strong coffee, put on an imposing
official tarboosh instead of his sun-helmet, and formed himself into a
court of inquiry and judgment under the acacia tree. He would have
liked his people to have seen him now, with his two black orderlies in
waiting, and his Egyptian native officer at his side. He sat behind a
camp-table, and the prisoner, strongly guarded, was led up to him. The
man was a handsome fellow, with bold grey eyes and a long black
"Why!" cried Joyce, "the rascal is making faces at me." A
curious contraction had passed over the man's features, but so swiftly
that it might have been a nervous twitch. He was now a model of
Oriental gravity. "Ask him who he is, and what he wants?" The
native officer did so, but the stranger made no reply, save that the same
sharp spasm passed once more over his face. "Well, I'm blessed!"
cried Hilary Joyce. "Of all the impudent scoundrels! He keeps on
winking at me. Who are you, you rascal? Give an account of yourself!
D'ye hear?" But the tall Arab was as impervious to English as
to Arabic. The Egyptian tried again and again. The prisoner looked
at Joyce with his inscrutable eyes, and occasionally twitched his face at
him, but never opened his mouth. The Bimbashi scratched his head in
"Look here, Mahomet Ali, we've got to get some sense out of this
fellow. You say there are no papers on him?"
"No, sir; we found no papers."
"No clue of any kind?"
"He has come far, sir. A trotting camel does not die easily. He
has come from Dongola, at least."
"Well, we must get him to talk."
"It is possible that he is deaf and dumb."
"Not he. I never saw a man look more all there in my life."
"You might send him across to Assouan."
"And give some one else the credit? No, thank you. This is my
bird. But how are we going to get him to find his tongue?"
The Egyptian's dark eyes skirted the encampment and rested on
the cook's fire. "Perhaps," said he, "if the Bimbashi thought fit——"
He looked at the prisoner and then at the burning wood.
"No, no; it wouldn't do. No, by Jove, that's going too far."
"A very little might do it."
"No, no. It's all very well here, but it would sound just awful if
ever it got as far as Fleet Street. But, I say," he whispered, "we might
frighten him a bit. There's no harm in that."
"Tell them to undo the man's galabeeah. Order them to put a
horseshoe in the fire and make it red-hot." The prisoner watched the
proceedings with an air which had more of amusement than of uneasiness.
He never winced as the black sergeant approached with the
glowing shoe held upon two bayonets.
"Will you speak now?" asked the Bimbashi, savagely. The
prisoner smiled gently and stroked his beard.
"Oh, chuck the infernal thing away!" cried Joyce, jumping up in
a passion. "There's no use trying to bluff the fellow. He knows we
won't do it. But I can and I will flog him, and you can tell him from
me that if he hasn't found his tongue by to-morrow morning I'll take the
skin off his back as sure as my name's Joyce. Have you said all that?"
"Well, you can sleep upon it, you beauty, and a good night's rest
may it give you!" He adjourned the Court, and the prisoner, as
imperturbable as ever, was led away by the guard to his supper of rice
and water. Hilary Joyce was a kind-hearted man, and his own sleep
was considerably disturbed by the prospect of the punishment which he
must inflict next day. He had hopes that the mere sight of the koorbash
and the thongs might prevail over his prisoner's obstinacy. And
then, again, he thought how shocking it would be if the man proved to
be really dumb after all. The possibility shook him so that he had
almost determined by daybreak that he would send the stranger on
unhurt to Assouan. And yet what a tame conclusion it would be
to the incident! He lay upon his angareeb still debating it when
the question suddenly and effectively settled itself. Ali Mahomet
rushed into his tent.
"Sir," he cried, "the prisoner is gone!"
"Yes, sir, and your own best riding camel as well. There is a slit
cut in the tent, and he got away unseen in the early morning."
The Bimbashi acted with all energy. Cavalry rode along every
track; scouts examined the soft sand of the wadys for signs of the
fugitive, but no trace was discovered. The man had utterly disappeared.
With a heavy heart, Hilary Joyce wrote an official report of the matter
and forwarded it to Assouan. Five days later there came a curt order
from the chief that he should report himself there. He feared the worst
from the stern soldier, who spared others as little as he spared himself.
And his worst forebodings were realised. Travel-stained and weary, he
reported himself one night at the general's quarters. Behind a table
piled with papers and strewn with maps the famous soldier and his
Chief of Intelligence were deep in plans and figures. Their greeting
was a cold one.
"I understand, Captain Joyce," said the general, "that you have
allowed a very important prisoner to slip through your fingers."
"I am sorry, sir."
"No doubt. But that will not mend matters. Did you ascertain
anything about him before you lost him?"
"How was that?"
"I could get nothing out of him, sir."
"Did you try?"
"Yes, sir; I did what I could."
"What did you do?"
"Well, sir, I threatened to use physical force."
"What did he say?"
"He said nothing."
"What was he like?"
"A tall man, sir. Rather a desperate character, I should think."
"Any way by which we could identify him?"
"A long black beard, sir. Grey eyes. And a nervous way of
twitching his face."
"Well, Captain Joyce," said the general, in his stern, inflexible
voice, "I cannot congratulate you upon your first exploit in the
Egyptian army. You are aware that every English officer in this force
is a picked man. I have the whole British army from which to draw.
It is necessary, therefore, that I should insist upon the very highest
efficiency. It would be unfair upon the others to pass over any obvious
want of zeal or intelligence. You are seconded from the Royal Mallows,
"I have no doubt that your colonel will be glad to see you fulfilling
your regimental duties again." Hilary Joyce's heart was too heavy for
words. He was silent. "I will let you know my final decision to-morrow
morning." Joyce saluted and turned upon his heel.
"You can sleep upon that, you beauty, and a good night's rest
may it give you!"
Joyce turned in bewilderment. Where had those words been used
before? Who was it who had used them? The general was standing
erect. Both he and the Chief of the Intelligence were laughing.
Joyce stared at the tall figure, the erect bearing, the inscrutable
"Good Lord!" he gasped.
"Well, well, Captain Joyce, we are quits!" said the general,
holding out his hand. "You gave me a bad ten minutes with that
infernal red-hot horseshoe of yours. I've done as much for you. I
don't think we can spare you for the Royal Mallows just yet awhile."
"But, sir; but——!"
"The fewer questions the better, perhaps. But of course it must
seem rather amazing. I had a little private business with the Kabbabish.
It must be done in person. I did it, and came to your post in my
return. I kept on winking at you as a sign that I wanted a word with
"Yes, yes. I begin to understand."
"I couldn't give it away before all those blacks, or where should I
have been the next time I used my false beard and Arab dress? You
put me in a very awkward position. But at last I had a word alone
with your Egyptian officer, who managed my escape all right."
"He! Mahomet Ali!"
"I ordered him to say nothing. I had a score to settle with you.
But we dine at eight, Captain Joyce. We live plainly here, but I think
I can do you a little better than you did me at Kurkur."