by John Blaine
Now and then the jeep roared past a cluster of beehive huts, often surrounded by a thorn boma , or a wall. Tony said these were family villages, often occupied by a man and his wives-the Muslim faith allowed four-and his children and their children. They passed Nigerians walking along the road, or cultivating patches of yams and cassava. Always there was a friendly smile, an upraised clenched fist, and a welcome yell of “bature!”
The first time Rick had seen the raised fist he had interpreted it as a threatening gesture, but this was not the case. It was a welcome, a relic of the days when the fist had gripped a spear, held aloft in salute.
Those days were not long past, either, Rick reminded himself.
There was little traffic on the road. Once a British Land Rover passed, and they saw a few dilapidated trucks, called “mammy wagons” locally. Then, as they went through the littlevillageof Ringim , the road became dirt, and the falling dust from the high-blowing harmattan wind was suddenly augmented by a rolling cloud from under their wheels.
It was a little over a hundred miles fromKano to Nguru, and the three were dust-covered and weary after nearly four hours of driving. The lone gas station bore a familiar American commercial symbol, the Flying Red Horse, and while the jeep was being filled with gas, they took advantage of the station facilities to wash off the dust of the road and to drink two bottles of Fanta apiece.
Rick and Scotty had already tasted the local soft drink-only to find that the name Fanta appeared on the bottle in company with a more familiar legend in small print. Fanta was a product of the export division of the company that produced their favorite American beverage: Coke.
Tony Briotti glanced at his watch. “There’s a rest house here. Had enough?”
Rick shook his head. “The schedule calls for reaching Matsena. Let’s buy another few bottles of Fanta and break out the sandwiches to eat on the way. We can camp beyond Matsena as we planned. There are still nearly four hours of daylight left.”
“I’m with Rick,” Scotty agreed.“Unless you’re too tired.”
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“Not me,” Tony said. “I thought you might be. I should have known better. Let’s get going.”
It was about forty miles from Nguru to Matsena, and they made it in about ninety minutes, passed through the town, and took the road shown on Tony’s map. The road was little more than a caravan track, an impression heightened by an actual caravan of camels laden with wood coming in from somewhere aroundLake Chad . Their speed was slowed drastically by the road condition, which resembled no road on which they had traveled before. They were nearing the fringes of the desert now, and the scrub growth of the savanna country had given way to an increasing number of rocks, most of which seemed tolay in the jeep’s path.
“We’ve had enough,” Tony announced after an hour of rough travel. “Keep an eye open for a place to camp.”
It was another hour before they spotted a likely location, a cluster of four great baobab trees. There was no water nearby. It would have to be a dry camp, made even drier by the dust of the harmattan.
The baobabs were in a hollow that would protect them from the wind. It grew chilly in the sub-Sahara at night, even this close to the equator. The three got busy. Tony pulled then: tent from the trailer and started to set it up, a one-man operation with the new model, while Rick unloaded the kerosene pressure stove and put water for coffee on to boil. Scotty moved around collecting bits of wood from the baobab trees and dried bushes for a small campfire. They didn’t need a fire for cooking, but as Scotty said, “How can you have a proper camp with no fire?”
The sun set in a blaze of dark-red glory through the dust of the harmattan while they worked. Scotty got his fire going while Rick opened a can of soup to go with the remaining sandwiches the Central Hotel had packed. Tony spread then: sleeping bags and lighted a kerosene lantern to supplement the firelight in the growing darkness.
“Soup’s ready!” Rick called.
They settled down to eat. Rick looked at the contented faces of his companions and felt fine. First camp was always an important event in a trip like this, and everything was going well. They were on schedule.
Tomorrow would see them traversing some really barren country. He wondered where they would camp twenty-four hours from now.
Scotty suddenly hissed, “Don’t move!” He looked straight ahead with a fixed stare.
Rick and Tony froze.
There was a sharp command from behind Rick and a rifle bullet smashed into the fire. “Up hands!” a voice called.
Six hands shot into the air.Whoever it was had sneaked up quietly and now had the drop on them. Rick turned slowly and carefully, hands high.
Eight rifles were trained on them from the top of the rise, and a tall man in flowing robes and a red turban was striding down the rise toward them, a gleaming long sword in his hand.
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CHAPTER III
The Emir’s Guest Room
The jeep lurched, bounced,then slid sideways for a breathtaking moment while Rick fought for balance.
It was a nerve-racking and muscle-wrenching process, trying to keep balanced, because he was blindfolded, with wrists lashed to the tubular frame of the jeep seat.
In a way, he thought grimly, the extreme discomfort of the trip was a help. It kept him too busy to worry, or to let his anger mount to the screaming point. He wondered how Scotty and Tony were making out.
They were with him, Tony in front and Scotty at his side in the rear seat while a wild tribesman drove, but the crashing, bumping, skidding progress of the jeep made conversation difficult if not impossible.
Last night, prodded by rifles, they had been herded into their tent to sleep under guard, then roused at dawn and lashed into their own jeep. No discussion had taken place. The red-turbaned leader spoke in grunts, communicating by gestures with his long sword-just like one Rick had bought from the Hausa trader as a souvenir.
The jeep rolled on interminably, while Rick suffered intense discomfort with gritted teeth. He was black and blue, he thought, from shoulder to ankle where sudden lurches had thrown him against the jeep and seat frames. The jeep was not a luxury wagon under the best of road conditions, and on the nonexistent road they were traveling it was an iron cage in which he bounced back and forth.
There was a shouted command and the vehicle turned, slid, and came to a stop. Rick felt hands loosening his bonds, then the blindfold was pulled from his eyes. He blinked at the sudden glare of the bright sun, and squinted until his vision adjusted. They had come to a stop in a hollow among more baobab trees.
The red-turbaned leader motioned them to climb down, and as Rick gathered his bruised bones and muscles for the effort, Scotty, beside him, got to his feet with a suppressed groan and stepped to the ground. Rick followed, and reached out a hand to Tony.
One of the desert horsemen had already started a fire from the scraps of wood under the trees by the time the Spindrift trio had recovered sufficiently to move a bit more freely.
The leader motioned to the trailer. “I guess he’s giving us permission to get wood and water,” Tony said.
Rick was willing. He was hungry and thirsty. He led the way to the trailer and opened the food box, while Scotty reached an exploring hand under their bedrolls.
The leader saw the movement. He grinned broadly and patted his saddle. Rick saw the stock of Scotty’s rifle projecting from the leader’s saddle sheath.
“He thinks of everything,” Scotty said bitterly.
“You’ll get it back,” Rick replied with more assurance than he felt. Red Turban had searched them thoroughly. Their pockets had been emptied and their wrist watches had been taken. “Come on. Let’s Page 9
break out some chow,” Rick urged.
“I suggest corned-beef sandwiches,” Tony said.“Quick, simple, and nourishing. I don’t feel like struggling with anything more complicated.”
Rick and Scotty agreed, and in a few moments they were munching thick slabs of corne
d beef between slices of coarse Nigerian bread.
“I’ve been trying to keep track of our direction by the feel of the sun,” Scotty said between bites. “It doesn’t work. We’ve changed direction so many times I’ve lost count. Did either of you do any better?”
Rick and Tony shook their heads. “The sun tells me it’s about noontime,” Tony said, “but I have no clues about the direction in which we’ve been traveling, except that the vegetation is even sparser than it was yesterday. That could mean we’ve been going north, or northwest, or northeast.”
“Where are they taking us, and why?”Rick asked.
There was, of course, no answer to that. A short distance away the tribesmen sat around the fire, drinking hot tea and chewing on some kind of cold meat that was probably mutton or goat. The desert people had their rifles handy and kept an eye on the three Americans.
Rick counted the group, then exclaimed, “Two short!”
“They may be on guard duty,” Scotty suggested. “We can’t see from this hollow.”
“Or they may have gone ahead to our destination,” Tony said, then added, “Whatever that destination may be.”
Lunch was over. The leader motioned them back into the jeep again, and rifles covered them as the leader personally lashed their hands into place and then replaced the blindfolds. There was a brief wait before the sound of horses’ hooves, then the jeep roared into life and the ordeal started again.
Rick’s wrists were lacerated from the binding cord, and they began to swell. He could feel the pulses pounding in both arms, and concentrated on counting his heartbeats while balancing as best he could against the leaping jeep. Once there was another pause. Because of the strong fumes, he could tell that the jeep was being gassed up. The trailer had carried two jerry cans of gas.
The pounding began again. He estimated from his pulse count that they had been traveling for nearly two hours before the gas stop. He gave up the count. It served only to remind him of the pain in his wrists. He clenched his jaws and swayed to the jeep’s motion. If only he could see, it wouldn’t be so bad. But the blindfolds were clearly to keep them from knowing the direction in which they were traveling, or from identifying landmarks. He wondered what would happen if the party met other travelers, and decided that was unlikely. From the movements of the jeep it was clear that they were not on any well-traveled road.
The torture went on endlessly. He could do nothing but bear it as best he could, sometimesbiting his lips to keep from crying out. He knew that Scotty and Tony were going through the same torture, and he refused to add to their misery by letting out groans and yells-even though it was hard to suppress them.
At last the ordeal ended. When his wrist cords were cut-because the flesh had swollen so much the cords couldn’t be untied-he could only sit slumped in the jeep seat, unable to move. The blindfold was removed and he just closed his eyes against the light
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Rough hands plucked him from the seat and his feet touched the ground. He tried to stand and couldn’t.
He fell to a kneeling position, half-unconscious. Water cascaded over him, and the shock brought him back to full sense. He struggled to his feet, holding onto the jeep and saw that Tony also was clutching the jeep for support. On the other side of the vehicle, Scotty pressed water from his hair and tried to grin.
Rick glanced around through half-closed eyes. They were in the wall-enclosed yard of a substantial building of stone and red clay. More than a score of small children, some in single garments and some in none at all, watched from the shelter of a thatched porch. Red Turban’s men leaned on their guns, in obvious amusement at the condition of the three. Across the yard came an imposing figure in gleaming white robe and white turban. It was hard to tell because of the shapeless robe, but the man probably weighed over three hundred pounds. He wore thick, horn-rimmed glasses, and carried a gold-headed cane.
The man looked them over in silence for a moment, then spoke in excellent English. “Welcome, white men. My master, the Emir of Kernel, bids me to see that you are cared for.”
“The best way to care for us,” Tony Briotti said harshly, “is to turn us loose and let us take our jeep and trailer out of here.”
The man smiled frostily. “I regret that is not possible. It would be a reflection on our hospitality.”
“Why did these men capture us?” Rick demanded.
“Capture you? Oh, no. You entered the southern boundary of the Emir’s lands, and he insists that all who enter become his guests. Gupia!” -hemotioned at Red Turban-“simply wanted to be sure you did not refuse to be entertained.”
“Rifles make it hard to refuse,” Scotty retorted.
“Precisely.They will also make it hard for you to resist our hospitality. Come with me and you shall have a bath and a change of clothes, after which the Emir may consent to see you.”
The promise of a bath melted any impulse to resist.
Time enough after they were rested and cleaned up. Rick found strength to follow the majordomo into the cool interior of the big building.
From the sun’s position Rick knew it was late afternoon. By the time they finished bathing in a huge sunken pool made of Arabic tiles, it was dark. A servant arrived and lighted candles. Another brought their clothing bags. The three changed, feeling cleaner, but no less bruised and exhausted.
The majordomo, who had said that his name was Elijah, came for them. “The Emir has consented to see you.”
“Big of him,” Scotty muttered.
They were led to a huge chamber dimly lighted by candles. A tall, lean figure was sprawled on a heap of cushions while kneeling women waved away mosquitoes and other night insects. Flanking the pile of cushions were two white-robed, turbaned guards who held .45 automatics. It was not too dark to see that the hammers were in full-cock position.
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“The Emir regrets it is not convenient for him to converse with you in English,” Elijah stated. “It would be courteous for you to make obeisance before the master.”
“Nonsense!”Tony snapped.
Scotty snorted.
Rick opened his mouth to join their sentiments and a sharp blow in the back sent him sprawling headlong. Scotty and Tony slammed to the earthen floor next to him. Rick turned to see the three guards who had sent them flying with blows from rifle butts. His back hurt so he had to clench his teeth to keep from letting out a groan.
“I knew you would not refuse to prostrate yourselves,” Elijah said smoothly. “You may now rise.”
The three did so, but not without some difficulty.
The Emir sat upright and surveyed them in much the same way that he might have examined three spavined, moth-eaten camels. He spoke briefly in Hausa.
Elijah translated. “My master asks me to say that he looks forward to a long and useful visit.”
“Tell your master,” Scotty grated, “that I look forward to the day when I find out if my hands will meet when locked around his throat.”
Elijah shook his head. “It is well you did not say that directly to my master. Since you said it to me, I will let the matter drop because you are doubtless hungry and tired. My master regrets he cannot dine with you. And now, you will back away, bowing as you go.”
“Do it,” Tony said abruptly.
The boys did so, and Rick knew Scotty was seething inwardly, too.
When they were in the corridor, following Elijah to another room, Hick asked Tony, “Why did you give in?”
“Because we’ve been beaten enough.Bowing was only a small blow to our pride, much better than another blow to our backs. It wouldn’t be good for one of us to end up helpless with a serious injury.”
Rick knew that Tony’s reasoning made sense, but he didn’t like the idea of kowtowing.
Elijah watched them eat, but took nothing himself. Nor would he answer questions. “What is written,” he said, “is written. Time will answer all questions. Now eat, and I will take you to the Emir’s guest quarters fo
r the night.”
The food was distasteful. There was lamb, so highly spiced it burned the mouth like flame, and chicken so tough that Scotty, the irrepressible, was moved to say: “I know where they got this bird. They chased him down fromAlgeria and caught up with him just as he died of old age and hardening of the arteries.”
Lamb and chicken were washed down with lukewarm water, and at last the dismal meal ended. Elijah, the three guards following, led them to a flight of stairs. Servants brought extra candles.
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They went down stairs which were cut from rock, then into a room filled with boxes, through a door, and into a long corridor. Along the corridor were heavy doors made of timbers. The doors opened inward, and each had a barred window cut into it.
Elijah paused before a cubicle. “Your guest room,” he stated. “Please to enter.”
Rick said to himself, “This is a prison. Rut what have we done to be put into a dungeon like this?”
The room had stone walls, except on the door side where the wall had been made of heavy stones put together to form a massive kind of masonry. It was barren, except for a jug of water, a bucket, and their sleeping bags.
“I hope you have a good rest,” Elijah said politely, and closed the door on them, leaving only a single candle burning for light. They heard a heavy bolt slide and knew they were locked in.
Tony called, ”Just a moment! I demand to know why we’re locked up like this, and when we are to be let loose.”
Elijah peered in through the barred window. “My master enjoys having guests. He would not like to see you leave until you have remained awhile. How long will that be? Who knows? But be at peace. Allah will decide.”
CHAPTER IV
One Hundred Kilos of
Peanuts
The three stared at each other in the dim light of the single candle, then the two boys focused on Tony.
