by E. C. Tubb
From his waist he took a folded square of white material, the sun-cover of his kepi, and threw it high in the air and away from the direction he intended to go. Immediately every rifle in the fort blazed fire towards the Arabs, as the legionnaires, obeying the sergeant, fired blindly into the night. As they fired, Corville, using all the strength and agility of his youthful body, sprang out of the well and raced across the compound,
In the night the machineguns stuttered their song of death and bullets, some tracer, lanced towards him.
He stopped, ran, jumped sideways, reversed direction and then, before the gunners could swing their heavy weapons, ran full speed for the shelter of the wall.
He made it with a scratched calf and two canteens spilling water from twin bullet holes. Even as the sergeant caught him and relieved him of his burden the night was split with the undulating yells of the Arabs as, maddened with rage at the young officer’s escape, they surged to the attack.
“Allah il Allah! Mohamed il Akbar!”
“Hurry.” Smith, already disguised as a Beni Seidel Rif adventurer, grasped the officer’s arm and led him to his quarters. “The women and the man are ready, I’ve told them all to keep silent no matter what the provocation. The women are supposed to be your wives, the man a dumb lunatic and you’ll be an itinerant Berber. As a lunatic the Arabs will think the American ‘a ward of Allah’ and he will be safer than if he carried a couple of machineguns.” The sergeant paused, fighting his desire to grab a Lebel and join in the fighting. “Hurry!”
Quickly Corville stained his face and body a deeper brown, donned the loose burnoose and turban of a Berber, strapped a belt containing a long, thin-bladed dagger around his waist and picked up a Lebel. The rifle could be explained by a raid on a fort, too many Arabs boasted of the possession of similar rifles and were an object of envious pride to their fellows. Beneath their burnooses both Smith and Corville strapped a pair of automatic pistols thrusting extra clips into hidden pockets inside the loose garments. A heavy camel whip and a curved sword completed their attire,
Corville paused as a fiendish yell rose above the firing of the rifles and stared at the sergeant.
“They’re in the compound. The devils!” His hands clenched at his own helplessness. “Hark at them.”
“Ready?” The sergeant looked up from where he had poured the contents of the canteens into a water container made from the sewn skin of a goat. “Let’s get away from here.”
He spoke sense and Corville knew it. It was useless to blame himself for deserting his men. He had a higher duty and to die would be the easiest thing to do. He gritted his teeth as he heard a man scream with indescribable torment and, just as a fresh wave of yelling Arabs beat down the last of the defenders, he together with the sergeant, the American and the two women, slipped over the far wall and, crouching between the rocks, made their cautious way through the enemy lines.
That they succeeded at all was wholly due to the fact that every Arab in the vicinity was hastening to the fort to be in at the kill. They paid no attention to the little group. Their minds filled with greed for rifles and ammunition.
As Corville and his party mounted the summit of the surrounding hills the red fire of burning blossomed from the doomed fort.
Resolutely Corville led the way into the trackless desert.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ALI BEN SIRDIR
THE journey to Sidi Baba was even in the best of times, not one to be undertaken lightly. Between the fort and the Arab town stretched miles of barren desert without a single waterhole or oasis to refresh the weary traveller. Now, on foot, with scant water and with three people unused to desert conditions, Corville at times doubted whether or not they would succeed or leave their bones to whiten on the burning sand.
Three days after leaving the doomed fort he knew that, as things were, they would never make it. Alone he and the sergeant could have won through but the women, especially the older Miss Carson, weakened fast beneath the twin perils of thirst and sun. At evening camp Smith called Corville to one side and spoke to him in a low tone.
“The women can’t make it, sir. The man is doing his best and may pull through but his sister, despite what she says, can’t go on much further.”
“And the other one, Miss Carson?”
Smith shook his head then, as Clarice came towards them, began to speak in Arabic.
“One day more. Then she will either have to be carried or die.”
“Talking about me?” Clarice smiled at the two men. Beneath her thick veil her face was strained and revealed her weakness and Corville knew that as things were she would die before reaching the Arab town. He looked helplessly at the sergeant then, as Clarice continued to stare at him, forced himself to smile.
“We were saying that it wouldn’t be long before we arrived.”
“Is that true?” Clarice shook her head. “Don’t bother to lie to me. We’re in trouble, aren’t we? If you didn’t have us along you’d be able to make much better time. And the water, that isn’t going to last out either, is it?”
“It will last,” said Corville, but he didn’t mention that it wouldn’t last more than another day, and even then he and the sergeant had given their shares to the women. Clarice stepped up to him and gripped his hands.
“I guess that I haven’t had a chance to thank you for saving our lives yet. Now I want you to know that I appreciate all that you’ve done for us. One day, perhaps, I’ll be able to show you just how grateful I am.”
“Forget it.” Corville squinted at the sun and nodded to the sergeant. “Well, we may as well push on while it’s cool. If we travel at night and avoid the heat of the day we won’t suffer so much.”
Tiredly they fell into step and began the long, monotonous march towards the distant town. It was sheer slogging footwork, up one swelling dune to the crest, and then down the other side They walked through a wilderness of sand, marching across what appeared to be a frozen sea without as much as a blade of grass to break the eternal emptiness. They walked like things of wood, their legs numb from constant effort, their tongues swollen from lack of water and their muscles weak from lack of food. On and on, fighting a desperate race against time, against. the time when they would fall and be unable to rise again. Corville remembered his own recent experience in the desert and shuddered to think of the same fate befalling the young American girl. As he marched he found himself thinking more and more of her, how soft her eyes were, how sweet her lips, how nice it would be to lounge beside her or some cool seashore with the murmur of the waves reaching their ears and the cool, so cool spray dashing against their faces.
He stumbled and became aware that Smith had halted the little party.
“What is it?”
“Something ahead, sir. A camp, I think.”
“A camp?” Immediately Corville was wholly alert, his wound-induced weakness forgotten as he realised what the sergeant had said. “Toureg?”
“I don’t know. It may be a party of the raiders making for Sidi Baba, or then again it could be a nomad tribe or even a camel caravan.” The sergeant looked thoughtfully at the young officer. “Shall we take a look?”
“Have we any choice?” Corville glanced to where Clarice supported the almost fainting Miss Carson, herself supported by her brother. He lowered his voice. “We can’t go on like this another day. We’ll have to chance our reception at his camp. Maybe we’ll be lucky but if they recognise us....”
He let his voice fade into silence but the sergeant understood. Death was a better fate than that the women should be taken and sold on the slave block at one of the mysterious towns of the deep interior.
Corville raised his voice and spoke to the others.
“Listen. There’s a camp ahead of us. I do not know whether we shall be received as friends or as enemies. Remember that, under no circumstances, are you to speak. You, Dick, are supposed to be insane. You can mumble if you like but be careful not to say anything you should not know. You two
women are my wives. We are a small party travelling to Sidi Baba. Leave the talking to me and do not display any curiosity.” He nodded to the sergeant. “Right. Let’s see what happens next.”
The camp was a small one consisting of a few tents, some horses, and a couple of pack camels. Corville walked directly towards the solitary guard who, as he saw the strangers, called out and levelled his Jezail at the young officer.
“Peace be with you,” greeted Corville sonorously. “Where is your Sheik?”
“Sheik Ali ben Sirdir is within his tent,” growled the guard. “Who seeks to disturb his rest?”
“A traveller who, with his servant, his wives, and one who is the ward of Allah has been grievously beset and robbed of his camels.” Corville lifted his hand and cursed the non-existent robbers with the full fury of outraged virtue. “May Shaitan visit them in darkness and may dogs despoil their graves. May their sons bay at the moon and their daughters all be barren. May their wives spit in their beards and....”
“Peace,” laughed the guard. “Indeed thou curseth with the full fervour of an old man.” He gestured towards a camel-hair tent. “The Sheik is within. If you be as you say then he will comfort thee.” The Jezail lifted. “In the name of Allah....”
Corville sighed with relief as they passed the watchful guard. They had stumbled on one of the small, nomadic tribes who, unlike the warring bands, lived humbly and quietly, glad of the protection of French law. Later, when the women and the supposed ‘ward of Allah’ had been fed and given tents in which to sleep, Corville and the sergeant dined with the old Sheik Ali ben Sirdir.
It was not the normal hour for dining but, deeply steeped in religion as he was, the Sheik insisted on the rights of hospitality and, waking his cooks, had them prepare a great platter of cous-cous, mutton, rice, with dates and sweet sherbert to follow. Both men ate greedily and, to show their appreciation, belched mightily. The Sheik smiled and, clapping his hands, had his servants clear away the feast. A hookar was brought and, as they puffed at the water-cooled smoke, the Sheik questioned his guests.
“Your camels were stolen, you say?”
“Aye,” said Corville bitterly. “Three of the finest camels I ever hope to see. One was a veritable queen of the desert, of pure stock and with eyes like pools of limpid water,” He muttered a curse in Arabic. “Gone now. Stolen by the Children of Hell.” He watched the Sheik closely as he mentioned the dreaded Touregs and, to his relief, the old man nodded.
“Terrible are the Veiled Ones,” he said. “Harsh are they to all who come their way.”
“Allah is wise,” said Corville. “Allah is all merciful.”
“Allah is all-knowing,” agreed the Sheik. He puffed for a while in silence. “From whence came you?”
“Marojia. I was taking the unfortunate one, the ward of Allah, to his people at Sidi bel Abbes. We were attacked a short distance from Onassis and left to wander like dogs in the desert. Not even a camel did they leave me, but took them all and, in exchange, gave me this Ferengi rifle.” Corville picked up the Lebel. “Why should they do this, father?”
Thus appealed to the old man expanded with his superior knowledge. Not for one moment did Corville let himself be deceived by the affability of the Sheik. The man was friendly and religious but, if ever he learned that he had been made a fool of, his vengeance would be terrible. To the proud sons of the desert a man was what he appeared to be and, if he was false in that claim, then he would be treated with contempt, disdain, and, in the case of unbelievers, with torture too horrible to think of, So, as Corville listened to the old man, he did not make the mistake of revealing his true identity. Instead he withdrew even further into his disguise, finally managing to think wholly like the Arab he pretended to be, a trait that had made him one of Colonel Le Farge’s most valued operators.
“I have heard these whispers,” he said when the old man had paused, “In the bazaars men speak of the Great Jehad and of war flaming in the desert and of strange men who have come among us with strange skills so that the walls of Ferengi fortresses crumble as if at the touch of a Djinn. And yet....” He paused with calculated hesitation, “I have lived in peace with the Ferengi. At Marojia and at Sidi bel Abbes I have traded with them and always found them fair to deal with. Why must so many die to sweep them into the sea?”
“Speak not so in the tents of the Toureg,” said the Sheik warningly. “Nor in the encampments of the Bedouin. Such words will cause you to be flayed and staked on an anthill. And yet, old as I am, and one who has seen his share of war, your words have the ring of truth. Now we can tend our herds in peace. We can trade with the white-skinned Ferengi from far away and our chests are lined with gold from the sale of our horses and rugs. Want no longer comes among us and because of that, we are able to gain credit with Allah by the exercise of charity.” The old man paused and sucked reflectively at his hookar. “When I was a boy only a few could make the pilgrimage lo Mecca and a Hadji was a man of reverence. Now, because of the Ferengi, all can make the sacred journey and all who are true in faith should do so.” He looked pointedly at Corville’s unmarked turban and touched the green thread in his own.
“I have two wives,” muttered the young officer defensively. “But in ten moons I was to make the journey to kiss the Kabaala. Now, because of those dogs who robbed me, the pilgrimage will have to wait for a further thirty moons. Allah knows that I long to make the pilgrimage, but what would you? With hungry wives and an afflicted one to take care of, not to speak of small sons of distant cousins who must be fed....” He spread his hands in despair. “Allah smite the dogs for what they have done to an honest man.”
“What is written is written,” said the Sheik severely. “All things are as God wills.”
“Allah is all-knowing,” replied Corville, recognising the fatalism of the East. “But even a dog can bay at the moon.”
“And a jackal can snarl at a lion,” said the old man good-naturedly. “But come, we talk of the past. What of the things yet to come? Whither are you bound?”
“Sidi Baba. I was to sell my camel there, what a creature! But now I must beg charity until I reach home again.”
“Perhaps I could help you,” said the Sheik slowly. “I linger here for a while then move south to meet the young men of my tribe who are catching wild horses in the hills. After they are broken we make our way to Sidi Baba and from there to Sidi bel Abbes where we hope to sell the beasts to the Legion Etrangere. The Ferengi pay good gold for good beasts.”
“You sell to the Legion?”
“Why not,” said the old man calmly. “I have listened to the Mullah known as the Hadji Hassan but find his words of air and idle promise. If he had his way he would spill the blood of the faithful in a desire to overthrow the French rule. But Allah knows that we of the desert do not wish to live in towns. What need then to sweep the Ferengi into the sea? Let them rule if it so pleases them and, as for us, we hunt and war, fight and tend our herds, live as our fathers lived and die as they die. It is the will of Allah.”
It was also good sense and Corville’s respect for the Sheik grew as he listened. Ali ben Sirdir knew truth when he saw it and, as he said, the tribesmen did not really want to rule the coast. They lived as they had always lived, a nomadic life in the desert that was their home and their own special territory. War between the tribes was, to them, a game. Clear thinking men knew that once the French had been swept away other, perhaps worse systems of government would take their place. Morocco, without the Legion to both police and defend it, would be an easy plum for the picking by greedy powers who, once in command, would destroy the Arabs as a nuisance.
“This Hadji Hassan,” said Corville. “What manner of man is he?”
“A renegade. A Ferengi who has embraced Islam. A man from the far North who has advised certain Sheiks on how to make war and has taught them the use of arms. A trouble-maker who preaches the Jehad and yet who lies in his throat at the same time. A dangerous fool who other fools follow and will, with
him, find Shaitan waiting at the end of the road.”
“I see.” Corville nodded. It was as Le Farge suspected, a foreign power had sent an agitator into Morocco to stir up the ever-restless natives. With gold and modern weapons he had bribed the loot and power-hungry Sheiks of whom El Morini was the leader, to revolt and unfurl the banners of war. The trouble was that nothing succeeds like success and with Fort Onassis a burned ruin, Marignay a possible traitor, and the path to Marojia open to the newly-armed hordes, peace in the desert was something almost totally lost. Corville bit his lips to hide his impatience. The news had to get to Le Farge but without the aid of the old Sheik he was powerless to move, He could not, dare not leave the two girls and Dick in the grasp of the Sheik.
Once the old man guessed that they were not what they appeared he would kill them to avenge the insult given by accepting his hospitality. The only thing Corville could do was to stay with the Sheik until they reached Sidi Baba, and from there try to get transport to Sidi bel Abbes.
He mentioned the matter as delicately as he could.
“I have no spare horses,” said Ali ben Sirdir, “and no one to escort you even if I had. My guards I need for, with the desert aflame, not even Allah could protect me or mine should the Veiled Ones sweep down on me.” He looked speculatively at the Lebels both Corville and Smith carried. “They are good weapons you bear.”
“Ferengi guns.” Corville reached for his rifle and passed it over to the Sheik. “I am not the beggar I seem, Mighty One. If it will please you to accept a small token of my regard, a mere nothing, but something which, at the most may serve to amuse you for an idle hour, take it with the blessings of Allah that your aim be always true.”
“It is a fine weapon,” murmured the Sheik and Corville knew that he was envious of the rifle. “And yet I cannot take a man’s weapons and leave him naked to his foes. Here.” He reached behind him and produced a Jezail. It was, in itself, a work of art with its delicate stock. Flintlock action and chased barrel. The stock was heavily ornamented with precious metal and the foresight was a small but valuable pearl. Corville took it, running his hands over it, knowing that, in mere intrinsic worth, the Jezail was worth ten Lebels.
