African Enchantment

by Margaret Pemberton

  When she had changed, Hashim escorted her through the overly rich rooms and she noticed for the first time the curved scimitar at his waist. Two fresh horses waited outside. Hashim shouted what seemed to Harriet to be curses and blasphemies at the many servants who rushed forward to help her mount. They fell back beneath Hashim’s onslaught, and he himself helped her into the saddle. She paused as she was exposed once more to the unbearable heat of the afternoon sun.

  ‘I do not really want to see Berber, Hashim.’

  He grinned. ‘ I know that and do not blame you, Miss Harriet Latimer, English lady, but it is my master’s wish.’

  They cantered towards the dung-filled streets. ‘ But why, if there is nothing here for me to see?’

  He grinned again. ‘Maybe not, Miss Harriet Latimer, English lady, but my master wishes to bathe and rest himself.’

  ‘I still don’t understand …’

  Hashim said patiently, ‘My master does not trust the Pasha. He is a man who likes women. Many women. My master knows that with me you will be safe.’

  Harriet laughed with relief and pleasure. So that was why he had ordered her out into the heat of the afternoon. He had been jealous. It was a novel thought and one she liked. Hashim ignored the cesspool of Berber and rode away from it towards the banks of the river. The broad expanse of water glistened as it swirled onwards towards the coast. She gazed at it in fascination. Where had it come from? Already it was exercising as powerful a hold on her mind as it had on her father’s.

  ‘Does anyone know the source of the Nile, Hashim? Do the natives?’

  Hashim shook his head. ‘It comes from deep in the heart of Africa. From country where no man goes, now or ever.’

  ‘Not even Captain Beauvais?’

  Hashim looked at her strangely and dug his heels in his horse’s flanks, not answering but riding away from the reed-lined banks and obliging her to follow.

  They rode a little way in silence and then Harriet said, ‘Why does the Pasha have so many servants? I counted over fifty. Surely he cannot need so many.’

  Hashim frowned. ‘The Pasha has no servants.’

  Harriet said impatiently, thinking that he had misunderstood her, ‘Servants, Hashim. The men and women who tend the horses and fetch and carry. The girls who led me away to bathe and change.’

  ‘They are slaves and concubines.’

  Harriet gasped, her eyes widening.

  ‘Every Pasha has his slaves and concubines,’ Hashim said reasonably.

  ‘But there were scores of them,’ Harriet protested.

  Hashim shrugged. ‘The Pasha is a wealthy man. He can afford to buy many women.’

  Harriet felt faint. The girls were no older than herself: some of them younger.

  She said in shocked outrage: ‘It should not be allowed! It should be outlawed!’

  ‘The English do their best,’ Hashim said pacifyingly. ‘But it is of little use. In our country there has always been slaves. Why should it suddenly be different?’

  ‘Because it is wrong for one human being to belong to another, like a chattel,’ Harriet said explosively. ‘If I had known I would never have set foot in the Pasha’s residence! I would rather have starved!’

  This time it was her turn to dig her heels hard into her horse’s side.

  ‘Where are you going, Miss Harriet Latimer, English lady?’ Hashim called, taken momentarily by surprise at her out burst of rage.

  ‘To Captain Beauvais!’ she shouted back over her shoulder. ‘I shall tell him immediately of the true state of affairs in the Pasha’s residence! Once he knows he will not even spend the night there!’

  Hashim sighed, foreseeing trouble in the days ahead. It was patently clear that Miss Harriet Latimer, English lady, knew nothing about the existence in Khartoum of his master’s slave. The Circassian – Narinda.

  Chapter Three

  Harriet rode furiously, her whole being burning with rage. She would tell the Pasha herself what she thought of his domestic arrangements! Berber straddled before her and she reined in, aware that the way back to the Pasha’s residence was not as simple as it had seemed. A maze of dust-blown streets and alleyways confronted her. She took the widest and spurred her horse on. It could not be difficult locating a building as grand as the Pasha’s. Against the searing blue sky she saw the fluttering flag of the Ottoman Empire and rode confidently towards it. If the Pasha displayed his country’s flag so prominently in his main room, then no doubt it also flew from his roof.

  Far behind her Hashim saw the route she had taken and rode hard after her, filled with sudden disquiet.

  The street narrowed, becoming crowded. Frustratedly Harriet slowed her horse to a walking pace and tried not to let the strange, strong smell overcome her. Wretchedly dressed women halted in their tasks and stared at her in amazement. Children pointed and swarmed around her so that she had to shoo them away, frightened that the smaller one would fall beneath the hooves of her horse. Above the shabby buildings, the red crescent flag fluttered nearer and nearer. At last she turned a corner in its direction and faltered. It did not fly from the Pasha’s residence, but from a vast army barracks. Instead of women and children she was suddenly surrounded by men; coarsely dressed, Sudanese soldiers who, the minute they saw her, ran leeringly in her direction. In seconds they had surrounded her, blocking her exit, shouting and laughing at each other in a language incomprehensible to her, but their intent was clear. Desperately she urged the horse forward but scores of hands were holding its head. Other hands, a sea of them, were touching her legs, her waist, trying to unseat her.

  ‘Let go of me! Let go!’ Frenziedly she lashed out at them with her riding crop, only to arouse a fresh storm of laughter.

  Women and children surged from the alleys to watch silently. Hashim was impotent, his horse wedged in on either side by human flesh.

  There was a loud scream and above the mass of dark heads he saw Harriet pulled sideways, the horse rearing. Agilely he sprang to the ground and like an eel twisted and pushed through the gathering crowd, not towards Harriet but away, running with the speed of a gazelle in the direction of the Pasha’s residence.

  ‘Take your hands off me!’ Her voice was a shriek as her riding crop was wrenched from her hand and she was hurled from one pair of searching hands to another.

  The men who had crowded her horse had formed a circle and were spinning her from one to another as if she were a rag doll while their less fortunate companions pushed and shoved in order to obtain a better view of the spectacle and gave encouragement by clapping wildly and stamping their feet.

  ‘Stop it! Stop it! Oh let me go, please! Please!’

  Her distress only caused more hilarity. The pins in her hair fell free and a great cheer went up as her hair spilled from its prim braids.

  Round and round they whirled her so that without the momentum of their hands she would have fallen, sick and dizzy, tears streaming down her face. The noise, the heat, the horror intensified. The buttons were wrenched from her blouse, her heaving breasts contained only by her lace-trimmed camisole.

  ‘No! No!’ she gasped. ‘ Please God. No!’

  Her hair was tugged, wrenching her head back, a triumphant hand seized hold of one of her breasts and in the same split second a revolver shot rang out, scattering the women and children in the alleyways, silencing the beating feet and handclaps of the men.

  The hold on her body intensified, brutal fingers digging into the soft flesh. Half senseless, held stationary, the world still spinning about her, Harriet saw the great stallion and its rider force their way through the throng. His shirt was gashed open at the throat as if he had been in the process of dressing when Hashim had reached him. His tightly trousered legs were encased in gleaming Hessian boots; his eyes were frightening, cold and hard, more menacing than the smoking revolver he held in his hand.

  The silence was momentary. There were shouts of defiance and abuse from the soldiers and several hands reached to the waists and the pisto
ls lodged there.

  ‘Drop your weapons to the ground or every last one of you will be court martialled and shot!’

  The voice was like a whiplash, the authority indisputable.

  With shrugs and spits, the men began to disperse, the name Beauvais uttered contemptuously.

  Harriet tried to run towards him but could not. The hand securing her breast merely tightened, pulling her hard against an unseen body. From being the centre of a circle, Harriet and her captor now stood alone, the previous participants watching from a safe distance.

  Raoul did not even ask that Harriet be set free. From across the dust-filled square he raised the revolver once more, and took careful aim. Harriet’s abductor laughed derisively at the gesture and then screamed in pain as his arm was blasted, bone shattering, blood spurting.

  Harriet fell forward, sprawling full-length on the mud-beaten ground, her torn blouse seeping with the blood of her assailant.

  Shaking convulsively she pushed her tangled hair away from her face and tried to rise to her feet. Through sweat and tears she saw the black boots in front of her, felt strong hands grasp hold of her and lift her in one swift and easy movement into his arms.

  A grey-faced Hashim waited in fear as Raoul strode through the square, and, not releasing Harriet, mounted his horse. The men watched silently and sullenly as Raoul’s victim rolled and screamed in pain. Hashim felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. It would take only one move, one shout of initiative, and the whole pack would be on them. With superb arrogance Raoul rode his horse towards the line that blocked his exit, not pausing for a second as the soldiers showed no sign of giving way. Hashim’s fingers tightened around his dagger, and then, as Raoul showed every intention of trampling them underfoot, the crowd parted.

  Harriet saw nothing of the silent spectators who watched their progress. Her hair covered her face and breasts, her arms were wrapped around Raoul’s lean waist, her head on his chest. When they reached the verdant green of the garden she was still trembling.

  Holding her as easily as he would a child, Raoul slid from the saddle and strode through the hordes of excited, chattering servants.

  ‘Malindi!’

  A plump woman, some years older than the braceleted girls, stepped forward from the shadows of the courtyard.

  ‘Take care of my cousin for me.’

  ‘Yes, Capitaine Beauvais.’

  Her arms tightened around his neck. ‘Don’t leave me!’ Her lips were parted and trembling, her distress palpable.

  His voice caught and deepened. ‘Have no fear, you will be safe from now on.’

  With Malindi hurrying by his side, he carried her across the courtyard and into a suite of cool, high rooms beyond. Behind them Harriet could see the Pasha, flusteredly leading his retinue in an effort to gain pace with them. Raoul continued heedlessly, his indifference to the Pasha’s queries and exclamations total. A booted foot kicked open a cane door. Inside was a giant-sized bed, marble figurines, a delicate china wash-bowl and jug, and lush velvet-covered chairs.

  As the Pasha breathlessly reached the doorway, mopping his perspiring brow, Raoul laid Harriet down on to unbelievable softness. As he did so her hair fell backwards, the lace of her camisole merely skimming her nipples. Raoul froze, staring down at the purpling imprint of cruel fingers on the delicate flesh. With a swift movement he covered her with a silk sheet and his face terrible, strode from the room.

  Harriet tried to rise, calling out his name. Malindi restrained her gently. ‘ You must sleep, Miss Latimer. You need rest.’

  Harriet sank back against the pillows, dazedly aware that she was being addressed by a slave in near-perfect English. Malindi sponged her face and hands with cool water and applied salve to her breast.

  ‘The skin is not broken,’ she said comfortingly. ‘There will be no infection.’

  The strength that had sustained Harriet through her ordeal in the desert, now failed her. She could only murmur her thanks and close her eyes, aware that she was taking help from one of the very slaves she had determined such a little while ago to free.

  When she awoke, it was to the light of early morning. Malindi was sitting in a chair, smiling.

  ‘You have slept long and deep.’

  ‘Yes.’ She pushed herself up against the pillows.

  ‘I will bring you fresh bread and fruit and coffee.’

  As Malindi left the room Harriet swung her legs to the floor. Her breasts throbbed and the purple bruise had deepened, but other than that she felt fit and rested. At the foot of the bed lay a high-necked, full-sleeved blouse. Hashim had been shopping again.

  The jug was full of cool, rose-scented water and she washed with pleasure, rebraided her hair, exchanging the torn blouse with the replacement. On the far side of the cane door she saw a dark silhouette and opened it, expecting to see Malindi. Hashim stood there, legs apart and arms folded, his dagger gleaming at his waist. He turned, giving her his blinding, broken-tooth smile.

  ‘You slept well, Miss Harriet Latimer, English lady?’

  ‘Very well, thank you, Hashim. Have you come for me?’

  ‘Come?’ He raised scraggy eyebrows. ‘Not come. I have been here all night.’ He tapped the dagger. ‘My master has insisted you be protected at all times.’

  Harriet felt a surge of pleasure. ‘Where is your master now, Hashim?’

  ‘He is not back yet.’

  Harriet’s composure fled. ‘ Back from where?’ she cried in alarm.

  Hashim’s grin was buoyant. ‘ From killing the son of a dog who so abused you.’

  Harriet clutched weakly at the door. ‘But he left hours ago! Yesterday afternoon!’

  ‘The dog learned of my master’s intentions and ran.’

  The colour drained from her face. ‘ Do you mean that Raoul … your master … is hunting the man down to kill?’

  Hashim nodded eagerly. ‘But of course. The son of a dog deserves to die. If Allah is good maybe my master will return with his head.’

  Harriet pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry of horror. Hashim, misunderstanding her distress, said reassuringly, ‘Do not worry, my master has killed many such.’

  ‘But he is a geographer!’ Harriet protested wildly. ‘Not a soldier! Not a murderer!’

  ‘He is a man,’ Hashim said simply, and moved aside as Malindi approached with a breakfast tray.

  Tremulously Harriet sat once more upon the bed as Malindi poured hot, fragrant coffee and offered her a plate of strange, nearly flat but sweet-smelling cakes. The coffee was reviving; the cakes as delicious as they smelled. She said, when she could trust her voice,

  ‘Has Mr Beauvais returned yet, Malindi?’

  ‘The Capitaine Beauvais arrived five minutes ago. He is bathing and will be ready to leave within the hour.’

  The Capitaine. She had heard him addressed as such before. So he was more than just a geographer. She remembered the cold, frightening eyes as he had raised his revolver and shot her assailant. It had been the act of a brave, courageous man, for the odds had been overwhelming. Lying in the cool of the room with Malindi at her side, she had marvelled at the fearlessness, the daring, the insolence he displayed towards life. It both aroused and intrigued her. But courage was not hunting down a wounded man with intent to kill. Retribution had already been exacted; there was no need for more.

  Hashim had said that Raoul Beauvais had already killed many such. Had she fallen in love with a murderer? A man who held life as cheaply as the slave traders? She shivered. Certainly he was a man held in deep respect. The Pasha’s attitude to his guest had shown that quite clearly. Did the respect verge on fear? Why hadn’t the soldiers attacked him? Why had they slunk so silently away? They had known who he was. The name Beauvais had been muttered and spat upon. Soldiers, officials, everyone knew of him and who and what he was. Everyone but herself.

  There was a light tap at the door and Malindi, fine silk fluttering around her ample body, hastened to open it. It was Hashim.
r />   ‘My master is ready,’ he said simply.

  Harriet finished her coffee and rose to her feet, feeling suddenly nervous. At the door she turned and offered Malindi her hand. The older woman took it warmly.

  ‘Goodbye Malindi, and thank you for your care of me.’

  ‘It was a pleasure, Miss Latimer.’

  ‘Malindi …?’

  ‘Yes, Miss Latimer.’

  ‘Malindi, where did you learn to speak English so well? The other slaves do not do so.’

  Dark grey eyes held hers kindly. ‘I am not a slave, Miss Latimer. I am the Pasha’s wife.’

  Harriet’s cheeks flushed as she hastily apologised. Malindi’s calm smile deepened. ‘It was an understandable mistake, Miss Latimer. One of many that I think you will make. Africa is not an easy land to understand.’

  Imperturbably she watched as her husband’s concubines descended like pretty butterflies and led Harriet to where Raoul waited.

  He was dressed once more as an Arab, his robes shimmering in the morning sunlight, his face half-hidden by his head-dress, only his eyes showing, dark and flashing and unreadable. A scabbard hung at his waist, and the deadly curve of a scimitar gleamed threateningly. She knew that the jewelled dagger would also be on his person; his revolver within easy access in his saddle baggage. They were strange necessities for a man who declared himself to be a mere geographer.

  The Pasha was looking most unhappy as he wished them a safe journey. Though early in the day, he was perspiring more freely than ever. Harriet took her leave of him with relief. Hashim laughed as they began to canter through the mud-baked streets.

  ‘It is good to see such a man so frightened.’

  ‘Why should the Pasha be frightened?’