On the Road to Bagdad: A Story of Townshend's Gallant Advance on the Tigris

It was a battle-scene in fact, the view one obtains behind the fighting front of an army – a view, up to this day, foreign to Geoff's eyes, save for what he had seen in the course of peace manœuvres. But this was the real thing. For from the British front, and on beyond it, there came the rattle of rifles, punctuated every now and again by the sharp rat-a-tat-tat, rat-a-tat-tat of machine-guns, and drowned every few seconds by the deeper, hoarser, more venomous bellow of cannon. A shell plumped into the ground almost under Sultan, though the leap that animal gave carried him clear before the resulting explosion. As it was, he and his master were stung by the gravel flung out by the explosive, while a splinter of shell, singing past Geoff's leg, crossed the open space and found a billet in the body of a stretcher-bearer carrying one of the wounded. Crash! Down the man went, and with him his burden, and for a moment or so Geoff watched as a comrade bent over him and examined the wound he had suffered. He saw the tall native lay his brother soldier out straight and stark on the desert, and then, helped by another, seize the stretcher and march on towards the rear of the army. It was just an incident. Those men carrying their stretcher, and assisting their damaged brothers, were doing their duty just as well as, just as unflinchingly as, and in circumstances of equal danger with those armed with rifles in the forefront of the battle.

And what a sight it was when Geoff reached the Mahrattas, and came upon the officer he sought, occupying a shallow trench scooped in the sand behind his battalion.

"A message, sir," he said, pulling the note out from his belt and presenting it, and then watching the officer as he opened it and read the contents.

Then he swung his eyes over the backs of the men of the Mahrattas, who were now lying flat on the ground, digging their way into the soft gravel, seeking shelter from the Turkish enemy. Across the plain stretching before him, perhaps six hundred yards distant, were deeply dug trenches, parapeted, and manned by soldiers of the Sultan, and no doubt commanded in many cases by German officers. Farther back, and almost out of view, and dug in just as deeply and as securely as were the infantry, were guns – invisible almost, yet showing their positions every now and again by the dull-red flash which shot up above them. Geoff watched an instant, and listened to the rattle of musketry from the men stretching along the British line who were not engaged in digging but in holding down the fire of the enemy – watched those sharper red flashes in the distance, listened to the roar of British batteries, and saw a sudden blinding flash above one of those dug-in Turkish guns, and heard the splitting, thunderous report of a British shell as it got home on an enemy cannon; and then, though he watched for some few minutes, no sharp red point of light appeared above the spot, no answering report came from the gun dug into its hollow, for no doubt the British shell had put gun and crew out of action. As for bullets, they swept through the air like bees, humming and droning, splashing the sand and gravel here and there, throwing dust and stones over the soldiers lying full length and eagerly digging for shelter. They screamed and hissed past Sultan and past our hero, and between him and the officer to whom he had brought a message. They fascinated Geoff, and certainly did not frighten him in the slightest. So interested was he, in fact, with his view of the Turks – an excellent view considering he was mounted – and so taken up was he with watching those Turkish batteries and looking for the result of British shells amongst them, that he did not heed the voice of the officer he had accosted.

Then a shout attracted his attention.

"That will do," he heard sharply; "you are bringing fire on us with that white mount of yours, and it would be a pity to see him damaged. Get off back out of rifle-fire, or I shall have you on my hands wounded."

Phit! Phit! A couple of bullets whizzed past Sultan's nose at that precise instant, and in a moment he was dancing on his hind legs, thrashing the air with those handsome fore legs of his, shaking his head, and neighing, while foam flecked his lips and soiled his beautiful arched neck.

"D'you hear? Confound you, young Keith!" shouted the officer. "You'll get me shot next. Clear off, for you're drawing fire from the whole of the enemy front upon us."

Crouching in his little hollow, the officer watched as the punctilious Geoff pulled Sultan to his feet again with a steady hand, and, sitting very upright – bolt upright – in fact, the position adapted for formal parades, saluted his senior.

"Hang it," he shouted; "go off!" and then smiled – an indulgent smile – as Sultan broke into a furious gallop and went off at mad speed across the open. "Fine boy! Nice boy!" that officer said as he glanced backward from his "funk hole". "Knew his father – and that's the sort of thing he would have done; and how proud he would have been of the boy if only he'd lived to see him."

Plunk! A bullet struck the lip of the parapet which one of his men had hurriedly thrown up before the officer, and sent a shower of sand and gravel all over him. Indeed, it drew his attention once more to the battle now proceeding and to the position of his own men. With glasses fixed to his eyes, and himself kneeling in his little shelter, the officer scanned the Turkish lines with the eye of an expert and a critic. Undoubtedly the enemy had taken up a strong position, and, moreover, were in strong force and were well supported by guns of large calibre. There was, in fact, no question of the British Expeditionary Force coming in contact with an enemy indifferently organized, badly armed, and meagrely supplied. No! Those Turkish troops sent to meet the British, and those others then fighting in the Caucasus Mountains, were the product of German energy and German money. They were part of that vast organization built up during some forty years past, which aimed at making the Kaiser the Emperor of the World, and not merely of humble Europe. If there had been any doubt about the question of the arming of this force which barred the progress of our soldiers, the shells flung at the latter were sufficient indication, while the rattle of rifles and the sharper staccato tack-tack of machine-guns proved the case without room for doubt or argument. Looking at those positions, those prepared trenches of the enemy, and guessing at their number of troops, which was considerable, it seemed almost hopeless for the Expeditionary Force to expect to be able to advance farther. And yet, as the dusk of evening came on, and the fighting died down, there was no sign of a British retirement.

"We're going to hang on to our trenches all night," Geoff told his friend Philip when he hunted him out, after snatching a meal at Head-quarters. "You mark my words! To-morrow will see something that'll startle the Turks and send 'em flying."

CHAPTER XII
Esbul, the Armenian

A grilling sun poured its rays down on to the desert and on to the heads and backs and shoulders of the Turks and British and Indians alike. Its glancing rays shone and flashed with startling brilliance from the broad sheet of water flowing so smoothly along beside the right flank of the British, making the naval sloops, which had come up the Shatt-el-Arab, stand out more prominently, more vindictively, as it were, than usual. The scene of this conflict might, but a day or two before, have been described by a visitor to this portion of Mesopotamia as entirely and absolutely uninteresting; for where could there be interest in a wide, almost flat stretch of sandy-gravel desert, bordered in the far south-west by a stretch of noisome green-clad marshes, and on the right by a river some seven hundred yards in breadth perhaps, almost innocent of vessels, and whose banks showed scarce a habitation.

But see it now on this day of battle. As deserted it seemed as ever, as flat and devoid of landmarks as possible; and yet, when one looked closely at it, when – supposing one had clambered to the top of the tallest palm-tree – one peered at the desert and searched its every yard through a pair of glasses; see those lines of trenches – trenches which the British Expeditionary Force had delved at furious speed during the hours of darkness – stretching away at right angles to the river. See those British guns dug in behind the trenches, well behind, and those others craftily hidden amongst the palm-trees, close to the Shatt-el-Arab; and cast a glance to the far left of the lines of trenches, and note those horsemen well away in the desert, waiting for an opportunity to outflank and round up the enemy. Yes, and beyond, in parallel lines, were the Turkish trenches, just as Geoff had seen them on the previous day. Deep lines cut in the soil like those of the British, seemingly unpeopled, and yet swarming with soldiers ready to do battle.

But as yet the time had not arrived, and those swarming soldiers sat in their trenches invisible, save for a busy sentry here and there who peeped warily over the parapet and looked towards the enemy. But tiny columns of smoke hung above the troops, and doubtless many a meal was being cooked over many a brazier. Perhaps it was five in the morning, for men must fight early where the sun is hottest. A gun sounded from the river, while a puff of smoke belched from the bows of one of the sloops anchored in the fairway. It was answered almost immediately by a trumpet-call in the far distance, and that imaginary person watching from the top of a palm-tree would have observed that the British cavalry were in motion.

"It's coming off!" Geoff told Phil enthusiastically, as he cantered up to the position held by the reserves of the Mahrattas. "We ain't going back, not a foot, and before nightfall we ought to have cleared them out of their trenches. A frontal attack, my boy, and not sufficient time nor sufficient guns to blow a way through them."

Phil grinned up at his chum, a rather nervous little grin, for that was this gallant young fellow's way when he was excited and there were things doing.

"Cold steel, eh?" he said. "Then the Mahrattas are the boys to do it."

And yet the hours wore away with little else but gun-fire and rifle-volleys, while the men sweltered and sweated in their trenches. Imagine the heat in those narrow dug-outs, with a tropical sun pouring right down into them, and men congregated closely.

"A charge ain't nuffin' to it," one of the men told a comrade, as he wiped the sweat from his forehead with a grimy, desert-stained hand. "Swelp me! I wish I was in at 'em. What's a-keepin' of us?"

The comrade addressed stared back at him blankly, for indeed the question was entirely beyond him. Mechanically, abstractedly, he pulled a little cloth bag from his tunic pocket, and from another a clay of venerable appearance, and somewhat attenuated it is true, seeing that the stem had broken off midway, and slowly stuffed the bowl with the weed he favoured. Just as slowly, just as abstractedly, he applied a lighted match to the bowl, and began to smoke almost sadly, growling into the stem, puffing huge columns of smoke against the parapet of the trench, and giving vent to low, angry growls, as though he were a dog in a very bad temper. Then, of a sudden, he delivered himself of well-considered opinions.

"Whoi ain't we a-doin' nuffink?" he asked in the most excellent cockney. "Whoi nah, if Oi was the G.O.C. – and Oi tells yer there's more things than that what's more unlikely – if Oi was the G.O.C. Oi'd just be up and doin'. See 'ere, Bill, Oi 'aint got nuffink up against 'im – that's the G.O.C. – for every chap along of us knows that 'e's a good 'un, but you just moind me, if that there G.O.C. was along 'ere in the trenches, a-swelterin' and a-sweatin', whoi, 'e'd know what it was, and 'e'd be for gettin' along with the business. 'E ain't afraid, not 'arf! But well, what's 'e after?"

His comrade coughed, a satirical, nasty, impatient sort of cough, and again dashed the sweat from his forehead.

"That's just what I was askin' you," he said, contempt in his voice, deep displeasure, disgust if you will, for indeed these two gallant fellows were eager to be up and doing, while inertia told upon their nerves and their tempers. "That's the very question. What is he doin' this 'ere G.O.C., a-keepin' us sweltering away in these 'ere trenches. Now you've wondered what you'd do if you was 'im. I'll tell yer what I'd do if I wore 'is shoes, and 'ad control of the troops what's with us. I'd – "

A Turkish shell plumping into the sand just a yard in front of that parapet somewhat disturbed the deliberations of these two arm-chair (that is, arm-chair for the moment) soldiers, for it burst with a splitting, thundering, shaking report, and promptly blew in the face of the trench on them. It was a couple of very angry, somewhat startled, and very disgusted individuals who finally scooped their way out of the mass which had almost buried them, and again sat down on the firestep of the trench to compare notes on the occurrence. But they had little time to continue, for that shell seemed to have been the signal for more active operations. Turkish guns belched missiles at the British, while British guns answered them with a vengeance. Then those horsemen careering out on the left flank of the Expeditionary Force were seen to be making off at an angle which would carry them beyond the flank of the Turks, and threaten to surround them. A movement, too, was seen amongst the men in the British trenches. Officers' whistles sounded shrilly, while hoarse commands were shouted.

"Make ready to leave trenches! Fix bayonets!"

From the far end of the line numbers of figures suddenly clambered over the parapet of the trench and darted forward, only to throw themselves on the ground when they had covered perhaps a hundred yards, and before the Turkish rifles or machine-guns could get at them. Then the same movement was repeated farther down, in another spot, and in another, and another. In an incredibly short space of time rifle-firing had become furious and unceasing, and had been transferred from the line of British trenches to those figures lying out in the open. Nor were they left there for long unsupported, for once more the movement commenced, and other groups dashed out to join them, while British guns thundered on unceasingly. In this way, little by little, by short rushes, the infantry advanced towards the enemy trenches, while the cavalry and the naval sloops had also come into action. Turks could be seen moving to their right flank to oppose the former, while the sloops steamed higher up the river till they outflanked the Turks, and could enfilade their position.

It was at this stage that Geoff was again sent out with a message, and, taking the precaution to leave Sultan well in the rear – for to have ridden him forward would have been to court disaster – he made a dash for the trenches, and from there to the line of the swarthy Mahrattas stretched out in the open. On the way he had delivered his message, and the temptation to join his old regiment and to hunt up his chum Philip was too strong for him. Creeping and rolling he finally came upon that young hopeful beside his platoon, and lay down near him.

"How d'you like it?" Philip shouted at him, for the rattle of rifles drowned the ordinary voice. "I hope they won't keep us out here very long, for those Turkish soldiers are fairly good marksmen, and it is hard luck for men to be shot whilst lying here and doing nothing. Looks as though we were going to charge the trenches."

"That's the order," Geoff told him. "We're near enough already, and if you look towards the enemy's position you'll see that some of them are already retiring."

A glance over the figures of his men showed Phil indeed numbers of Turks crawling from their trenches and fleeing across country. Farther back a team of battery horses swung in behind a gun position, and, raising his glasses, Geoff watched as the gunners endeavoured to hitch the team to their weapon and pull it out of its dug-out. But it was an operation they never accomplished, for a shell sailing over the position spluttered shrapnel in all directions, putting the better part of the team out of action and scattering the gunners.

"Charge!"

Whistles shrieked down the line. Officers sprang to the front of their companies, while British and Indians, helmeted and turbaned figures, leapt to their feet, and, with bayonets advanced, dashed across the space which intervened between themselves and the enemy positions. Hoarse guttural shouts left the throats of those British warriors who had come to Mesopotamia, while the higher-pitched cheers of the Indians mingled with them; and then, reserving their breath for the assault, heedless of the bullets which picked out numbers of them, and caused men to roll and bowl over, and which laid them out stark and stiff on the desert, the men went on in silence – that British silence, that dour, cold, remorseless calm which before now on many a field has scared the enemies of Great Britain. But it only lasted a few moments, until, in fact, the Turkish trenches were reached, and the men were in amongst the enemy. Yes, in amongst the enemy, for the Turks, to do them justice, had not all of them deserted their position. Many clung to their trenches with reckless bravery, and now crossed bayonets with men of the Expeditionary Force, with reeling, shouting men from the good County of Dorset, with tall, lithe, dusky sons of the race of Mahrattas, with sweltering, cursing white men, with dusky subjects of the King-Emperor who leapt at their enemies with the swift bound of a tiger. There was the crash of steel, the rattle and thud of rifle-butt coming against rifle-butt; there were yells and screams; there was the dull ugly sound of the bayonet-point as it struck some metal object – perhaps a button – and, sheering from it, went silently through its victim. There were the groans of bayoneted Turks; there was the cough of men whose chests had been transfixed, and whose lungs were flooded with blood.

It was a charge, a charge home, a charge which swept the British force into and over the enemy trenches, which hurled the Turks from their line, and which won a position for our men which, earlier in the day, the German officers had considered impregnable. Yes, German officers, white-faced sons of the Teutonic Empire, officers of the Kaiser, sent to carry his mission of world-wide conquest into Turkey in Asia, lay still and cold and white, their sightless eyes staring up at the burning sun which hung like a blazing orb above them.

It was war, this scene; and what was left when the howls and shouts of the soldiers had died down was the result of war, as it has been from earliest times, with just a few little changes and alterations which the growth of knowledge, the advance of science, and, in these latter days, the enormous increase in mechanical inventions have brought to it. Men die much in the same way, whether they be transfixed by the short stabbing sword of one of the old Roman Legionaries or by the bayonet of a British soldier; an arrow sent by a cross-bow, or by one of the old bows of England, has, or let us say had in the old days, much the same effect upon the man it struck as have bullets discharged from these-day weapons. A vital part is struck, and the man dies, and lies there, looking much the same to-day as when Roman Legions traversed this very spot in Mesopotamia.

"An ugly sight," you will say, "the horrible result of men's passions."

War? Yes, the result of war! But war not sought by King George or his people. That somewhat ghastly scene which Geoff looked upon, once the Turkish trenches had been captured, was not the doing of Great Britain, of France, of Russia, or of any of the Allies. It was the direct result of an ambitious policy fostered in Germany, a policy which had thriven and grown during forty years or more of ceaseless activity, which aimed at world dominance, and which, here in Mesopotamia, in France, in Poland, in a thousand places, was to produce the same and worse scenes – scenes of slaughter; scenes where men were robbed of their lives – young men who might have lived on and been of vast use to their own country, and would have done so, no doubt, had the Kaiser and his war lords not hatched that conspiracy to seize the whole world and bring it into the subjection of the Hohenzollerns.

Philip plumped himself down beside Geoff, and, pulling his water-bottle to the front, presented a cup of water to him. There was sweat on his brow; his face, his hands, his tunic, every part of him, was stained with sandy dust, which had been washed into little furrows on his face by the perspiration which had streamed from his forehead. He was gasping still, as was Geoff; his eyes were shining, while a glance at the young fellow showed that he was still filled with excitement.

"We got home," he told his chum, "and the Mahrattas went in like lions."

Geoff nodded, and, tossing his head back, drained the cup of water.

"Like lions!" he agreed enthusiastically. "And the Dorsets, my boy! Did you hear them? Did you hear those boys go in at the Turks? It was ter – r – if – ic! Hallo, what's that? Look over there!"

Away on the left they could see British horsemen galloping in wide circles to round up fugitives from the lines so recently vacated by the enemy, and here and there parties of troopers were cutting across the desert so as to encircle men who were striking towards their left and looked like escaping. And amongst the fleeing Turks were some who were mounted, and amongst them, no doubt, more than one German officer. Geoff had been watching them for a moment, and now had his attention attracted to a little group clear of the British horsemen just then, and appearing to have every chance of getting away safely. Of a sudden he saw a horseman burst from the group, while shots were fired as he spurred away from the others; then a couple from the group swung their horses round and set off in pursuit, careless of the fact that the fugitive was turning his mount in the direction of the British. It was an amazing sight, and drew exclamations from many.

"What's it mean?" demanded Philip, still puffing and blowing after his exertions.

"Don't know, but I'm going to see."

Geoff leapt across the trench, at the bottom of which lay many wounded and dead Turks, and sped across the open over which our troops had so recently and so gallantly advanced. In the distance he caught sight of his own fine Arab, of Sultan, and, signalling wildly with his hands, managed to attract the attention of the syce in charge of him. The man leapt into the saddle in an instant, and before many minutes had passed, Sultan, blowing and stamping and fidgeting, was pulled up within a few feet of our hero. To change places with the syce was the work of only a few moments, and in a trice Geoff was off again, and leaping his mount over the trenches sped on towards that horseman who had so strangely and so inexplicably burst his way from the group escaping from the British. He had a mile or more to cover, but Sultan made nothing of it. Indeed, in a little while Geoff had drawn quite close to the man, and, swinging Sultan round, was soon riding beside him. At the same time he turned, and drawing his revolver emptied it at the two men still pursuing. Whether his bullets went wide of their mark or narrowly escaped meeting a billet he never knew, but their effect was excellent, for the men pulled in their horses, and, having fired in return without result, swung their mounts round and galloped off to join their companions.

"Who are you?" demanded Geoff, pulling in Sultan.

"An Armenian, Excellency."

"And why with the Turks? You are not a soldier," said Geoff, noticing that the man was in civilian costume.

"A soldier? No, Excellency. A messenger merely, one who bears a missive to the British."

"Then a friend of the British, eh?" asked Geoff.

"A friend? Yes, always. In the service of a British Pasha these many years. A friend, at heart, of England."

Geoff stared at the man, and then, setting Sultan in motion, rode along, the man trotting his horse beside him.

"A message, eh?" asked Geoff after a while, having pondered deeply. "For the British, you say?"

"For the British, Excellency, for any whom it may concern. News of an English pasha who came but lately to this country."

"Oh, whom? The name? For whom is the message intended?"

"Excellency, I was to find the British force invading Mesopotamia. I was to hand my missive over to an officer of distinction, and I was to search amongst the officers who came from India for one, a youth, who might be with them."

"His name?" asked Geoff, now beginning to tremble with excitement, for who could this white man be who had sent a message? Who could the pasha be to whom this Armenian referred? Could it be Joe Douglas, his guardian, that excellent fellow who had befriended him these many years, and who had so recently gone on an expedition to Asiatic Turkey, and who, after his custom – a custom that Geoff knew so well – had disappeared entirely? There was no news from Joe Douglas these many weeks past, not a line, not a chirrup from him. But could this be his messenger? If so, Geoff should know him. Swinging round in his saddle he gripped the man's arm and stared into his face. A moment later he uttered a shout – a shout of happiness.

"You are Esbul, eh?" he asked.

"And you, Excellency, you are Keith Pasha."

"The message; give it to me," demanded Geoff fiercely, worked up by the occasion. "Yes, I am Keith Pasha, and your message comes from Douglas Pasha, my dear guardian."

It was with a shout of joy that he recognized the handwriting of that gallant soldier who had been as a father to him, and tearing the missive open he read it with an eagerness which was plainly apparent to the man who had brought it.

"If this reaches the hand of my ward, Geoff Keith, or of any British officer, let him give information of my position to the Commanding Officer of any expedition which may come from India to Mesopotamia. I have little time or space or means whereby to write a long message, and therefore must compress my information. I am a prisoner lying in a cell within a Turkish fort to the north and west of Bagdad, but where precisely I cannot say, nor do I know the name of this fortress. I was captured by a German named von Hildemaller. His agents trapped me at a place I sought outside Bagdad, and seized me. But for a friendly Turk they would have murdered me on the spot, and, as it is, they handed me over a prisoner. I make no complaint, but if the expedition advances towards Bagdad, let it make an effort to relieve me."

Geoff gasped, and re-read the message – devoured it in fact – for it was good to hear that Joe Douglas was alive, even though he were a prisoner.

"Tell me, Esbul," he said at last, while they continued to ride on slowly side by side, "this message – you received it from Douglas Pasha himself? You know where he is imprisoned?"

"Not so, Excellency, not so, Keith Pasha! This man – this devil, I call him – this German, the smiling, sweet-faced von Hildemaller. Ah! how I know the man, how I hate, detest, and fear him – he is too strong, too cunning, too artful to allow your servant or any other friend of Douglas Pasha to know of his whereabouts. Only von Hildemaller and Turks in high places can tell of the prison in which my master is shut up."

"But then," said Geoff quickly, "how – how came you to get the message?"

"It is shortly told, Excellency. There is a Jew, an Armenian Jew, in the city of Bagdad, a great admirer of my master, an old and trusted friend of his, who has been ever loyal to him."

"I know the man," said Geoff; "tall, angular, and bony; a man who sits in the market-place and sells embroidery."

"The same," said Esbul; "a wonderful man, who knows secrets that are hidden from many of us. He it was who brought the message to me in Bagdad, and bade me bear it in this direction. Yet, clever as this old Armenian Jew is, he too is ignorant of the place in which Douglas Pasha is imprisoned."

"But could help one to discover it," cried Geoff, still holding the message in his hand.

"Who knows, Excellency? This Jew, this Benshi, as they call him, is a man of parts, and, seeing that he is a friend of the pasha, he will surely help. But remember, Excellency, Turkey is now at war with your people; even I, riding towards your camp, and coming upon the Turks in this position, was seized upon. There was no time in which to cross-examine me, to find out why I came and whither, and for that reason, when the retreat began, they – the Turkish officers, and with them some Germans – were carrying me off with them. But you, Keith Pasha, they would know at once as an enemy, while I might pass, as indeed I have, through the country."

Geoff smiled at him, a smile of assurance.

"You forget, Esbul," he said, "you forget that I too have been in Mesopotamia with Douglas Pasha, that I speak your tongue and Turkish like a native, and that a fez or Arab clothing can make a wonderful difference. Why indeed should I not make this attempt to relieve my guardian? Tell me, Esbul, if in your case your father were imprisoned by some enemy, and there lay danger and difficulty between you and him and his prison, would you then count the danger and the difficulty and allow them to deter you from an attempt at his rescue?"

The tall, lithe young Armenian brought his hand with a sounding flap against the neck of his horse, while he gave vent to a sharp exclamation.

"Master," he said emphatically, "I would not! There are many who count the Armenian people as a shameless, effeminate race, who look upon the denizens of Erzerum and the surrounding country in which our race dwells as beneath contempt, unfit for this world, who hate us – and who thereby show some jealousy of us. But yet, peace-loving as we are, there lies deep down in the hearts of my brothers a source of courage – courage which, should the opportunity present itself, will spur them to fight the Turk and attempt to throw off his governance. Yet the hour might never come; and, while we wait, massacres take place, and indeed, even now, my people are being slaughtered. Yes, my master, if there be danger and difficulty in a task such as the one you mention, it should not perturb you. For listen, have I, the humble servant of Douglas Pasha, not braved many dangers in my journey hither? And he, though a good and liberal master to me, is yet not my father."