The war maker : $b Being the true story of Captain George B. BoyntonSmith, Horace Herbert
History
The war maker : $b Being the true story of Captain George B. Boynton
Smith, Horace Herbert
Filibusters
“We are as much entitled to our freedom as you are,” declared one of my
hosts, whose green turban indicated that he could trace his ancestry
back to Mahomet, “and we will win ours in the end, just as your people
won theirs. We may be a strange people,” he added, reflectively, “but
we are not so bad as we have been painted. The _howadji_ [strangers]
condemn our religion without understanding it and preach to us another,
which, so far as we can observe from its practices, falls far short of
our own. Mohammedanism needs no defence from me, but I will tell you
just one thing about it. If you were now to murder my brother I could
not lay hands on you or harm you, for you have eaten of my salt, but
not even Mahomet could make me cease to hate you in my heart. Does the
Christian religion, of which the British are so proud, teach you that?”
I confessed that it didn’t, so far as I had information or belief, and
made my sincere salaams to his faith. If I am ever to become afflicted
with any religious beliefs, I hope they will be those taught by Mahomet.
When I finally started back to my hotel Ialla and her attendants were
waiting for me in the alley, for it was not wide enough to be called a
street. They started on ahead, but we had gone only a few short blocks
when her four companions walked briskly away and she waited for me, in
a shadow so deep that I at first thought she had entered one of the
queer houses and my spirits fell, to be revivified a moment later when
I almost ran into her.
“How did your business turn out?” she inquired anxiously, as I bowed
low before her. Her voice, which I had been longing to hear, was soft
and clear, as well became her, and her radiant beauty shone forth
through the darkness.
“Thanks to your cleverness,” I replied, “it has turned out well.”
“Then you are going to rescue my uncle,” she exclaimed delightedly. Her
sparkling eyes flamed with excitement and, as if to seal the compact,
she extended her hand, which I first pressed and then kissed. Then I
slipped it through my arm and started to walk out of the shadow into
the moonlight, and she accompanied me without protest.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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