My men, as happy as we were
ourselves, now begged I would allow them to fire their guns, and
prepare the Turks for our reception.
Crack, bang, went their
carbines, and in another instant crack, bang, was heard from the
northerners' camp, when, like a swarms of bees, every height and
other conspicuous place was covered with men. Our hearts leapt
with an excitement of joy only known to those who have escaped
from long-continued banishment among barbarians, once more to
meet with civilised people, and join old friends. Every minute
increased this excitement. We saw three large red flags heading
a military procession, which marched out of the camp with drums
and fifes playing. I halted and allowed them to draw near. When
they did so, a very black man, named Mahamed, in full Egyptian
regimentals, with a curved sword, ordered his regiment to halt,
and threw himself into my arms, endeavouring to hug and kiss me.
Rather staggered at this unexpected manifestation of affection,
which was like a conjunction of the two hemispheres, I gave him a
squeeze in return for his hug, but raised my head above the reach
of his lips, and asked who was his master? "Petrik," was the
reply. "And where is Petherick now?" "Oh, he is coming." "How
is it you have not got English colours, then?" "The colours are
Debono's." "Who is Debono?" "The same as Petrik; but come along
into my camp, and let us talk it out there;" saying which,
Mahamed ordered his regiment (a ragamuffin mixture of Nubians,
Egyptians, and slaves of all sorts, about two hundred in number)
to rightabout, and we were guided by him, whilst his men kept up
an incessant drumming and fifing, presenting arms and firing,
until we reached his huts, situated in a village kept exactly in
the same order as that of the natives.
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