Caravan

by Dorothy Gilman

  All three men turned in surprise. Jacob said sharply, "Caressa, we are busy. Later, please."

  I stood my ground. I had been silenced before, but there was a distraughtness in me now, it was not a concern for my safety but something deeper that was in revolt. Too many sudden changes had been hurled at me in the last year and I had submitted to all of them because in Jacob's world I had been a child. But we were no longer in Jacob's world. A very different Caressa had been alive in another world for fifteen years before meeting him, a Caressa who was the daughter of a trapeze artist and a headless woman, and it was this Caressa who demanded audience. "Mr. Bowman—Jacob," I said, "I want to know the plans."

  Shocked, he said, "Caressa—"

  In a steady voice I told him, "There are two of us, Jacob, I'm going with you and I want to know."

  I had deeply embarrassed him but he carried it off smoothly, with only a small look of reproach. He said as if to a child, "Then you may sit in the corner, but be very quiet."

  I sat quietly and listened. What first startled me was learning that Umar did not always understand Jacob's Arabic; it was the classical Arabic that Jacob had studied, not the colloquial, so that it was necessary for the vice-consul to interrupt frequently and explain to Umar what was being said. I began to wonder just what communication would be possible out in the desert, with no vice-consul to interpret. Then Umar moved into the light so that I could better see his face, and something in me did not like this much either. He was certainly impressing Jacob with his quick laugh and dramatic gestures but I thought his eyes too close together. He reminded me of Sharkey Bill, one of the talkers at the carnival who had a wondrous spiel to pull in the townies but who Grams said had the heart of a snake.

  Sitting there in my comer I realized that in spite of all Jacob's wealth and the learned papers he wrote for his Society, he'd never learned much about people. He couldn't see the mockery gleaming in Umar's eyes as he bowed and charmed this infidel. I was sure that Mohammed had been right about this man and that he was demanding of Jacob ten times the money he would ask of any Arab merchant traveling to Ghadames. I did not know whether to be the more indignant at Umar or at Jacob, who so prided himself on his astuteness yet failed to see that in this country his wealth was as juicy a target as a stuffed panda in a game of slum skillo that had been rigged from the start.

  Well, I thought, // he is to be fleeced he at least can afford it, and he will not look kindly at my confiding these thoughts.

  With this I returned my attention to the conversation among the three men. They had already discussed the safe-conduct money paid to the Ajjer Tuareg, through whose territory we must pass. Their talk now concerned the caravan that was reported to be on its way from Benghazi. I listened closely, for from Mohammed I had learned much of such matters. He had told me that once Tripoli had been a starting point for almost all of the caravans setting out to cross the desert from north to south, and on a map he had traced the routes they would take, some heading for Murzuk in the Libyan Fezzan, some to the salt mines of Bilma, others to Lake Chad, to the Sudan or to the Niger River. But times had changed, he'd said, because the British and the French had established colonies below the Sahara, and now they moved their goods to the Ivory Coast to be shipped by steamer to Europe. It was rare these days to see a caravan in Tripoli, and the Turks who ruled were content to let the country grow stagnant.

  "Where the Turks walk, no grass grows," Mohammed had said, and he claimed there was still a prospering slave market in Murzuk in spite of the trade being illegal now. The slaves, he said, were brought there to be smuggled off to the harems in Constantinople.

  What was being discussed now was just how long it would take the caravan from Benghazi to reach us. Now that Jacob had received the furman he was impatient to know; what's more he seemed impatient to leave.

  "It's ridiculous to wait," he scoffed.

  "But safer," pointed out the vice-consul. "The larger the caravan the safer your travel."

  "But for heaven's sake, it's only a three-week jaunt to Ghadames," complained Jacob. "You speak as if we were heading for the Sudan or the Niger, halfway across Africa. Already we've been here six weeks and no one knows when this Benghazi caravan will reach us; they may not even have started out yet. Does anyone know?"

  "Lah," said Umar, shaking his head.

  "Well, then . .." and Jacob shrugged. "Why not go? We've paid the blasted Tuareg their tribute money, the camels are ready, our provisions packed, you've told me I've the best of leaders in Edrasi, and Umar will guide us. We've cameleers, I've hired guards and we have weapons. We're wasting time."

  The vice-consul smiled a little. "In this country one learns patience."

  It was at this point that I crept away, not wanting to hear any more, for I was remembering what Mohammed had said: "I do not think your husband a man to patiently wait for any caravan, little Bowman." He was right, of course, and I knew that we would soon be leaving and our sojourn in Tripoli ended.

  6

  Three days later we left Tripoli. Our caravan was to set out from the fonduk, the caravanserai where travelers from the desert found safety for the night behind its thick walls and massive gate, sleeping among their goats, sheep and camels. We came to it in mid-afternoon to watch the last of our camels being loaded, for we were to leave before sunset. I had followed Mohammed's advice as to my clothes, which irritated Jacob greatly, for although I wore the long divided skirt he'd ordered for me, I had abandoned the prescribed leather riding boots for a pair of soft felt Turkish boots and around my neck I'd hung a pair of desert sandals, called nuns, which Jacob looked upon disparagingly. Mohammed had said there would be a goatskin of water, more precious than gold, a blanket or two, and the rest was up to me—I had learned much from him since I reached Tripoli—and so I refused to wear either petticoats, waist cincher or cork hat. He had warned me, too, that many layers were needed against the heat of day and the cold of night, and that wool was best, so I had secretly wrapped my woolen barracan inside my blanket roll and I insisted on a turban for my head, with a straw hat perched on top of it. Because I was cautiously emerging from Jacob's domination, I had sewn pockets into the divided skirt and inside the barracan, and in these I carried the silver Hand of Fatima that Mohammed had given me, a few coins for palming and my three finger puppets—the clown, the golden-haired Isabelle and Mr. Jappy.

  As for Jacob, he looked like a stern riding master in khaki, riding boots and pith helmet.

  I was astonished to find that so many camels and so many people were necessary for a 300-mile ride across the desert, even though it would take three weeks by caravan; I'd forgotten the crates of supplies that had surrounded us in Jacob's library and that had occupied an entire room at the Consulate. Edrasi and Jacob had accumulated sixty pack animals, groaning and grunting under their loads and ranging in color from beige to brown to pure white. The riding camels were common jamal, but from somewhere Edrasi had secured a mahari for Jacob, sleek and elegant and graceful.

  Entering the crowded fonduk I found myself regarded with much astonishment and curiosity, a female in such a place and a "European" at that, and longed for the disguise with which Mohammed had protected me from this mix of curiosity and—surely hostility as well? I stood in a corner attempting to identify those who were there simply to watch, and those who were to go with us. 1 counted twenty-six cameleers; I found Edrasi and Umar and the eight armed Turkish soldiers who would provide military escort for us until we reached Mizda (leaving us then to the mercies of Allah) and there was Jacob, now rushing about and shouting orders, tight-lipped and cross lest these Arabs not respect his sense of time, which they never did.

  Nevertheless, by sunset it was announced that we were ready to go, and there was a flurry of excitement to which I was not immune myself. I mounted the straw-filled sack lying across the rump of my jamal; a cameleer applied a stick to the poor creature who began an intricate unfolding of knees and joints until he stood, as disgruntled and wary as
I. At this moment a bale of fodder dropped from one of the baggage camels behind me and 1 had to sit, feeling a mile high, while ragged men swarmed around the animal to bring him to his knees and reload him. Beyond the walls of the caravanserai the sky flamed red and gold, squandering its brilliance in an eruption of color before withdrawing its light. Camels brayed, roared and dropped dung; small boys shouted words at me I couldn't understand; Jacob, Edrasi and Umar stood together directing the stowing of the last pack, and then with a shout the camel was whipped to his feet, Jacob mounted his mahari and the gates of the caravanserai were opened to us so that we might ride into the rapidly fading sunset.

  I had been shown our route—south to Mizda and then southwest to Ghadames—but we were not to go far this night; the first leg of the journey was to be short, to test both us and the camel loads, but it would be midnight before we halted. Soon enough the sun set, draining the sky of color and robbing us of the day's heat. As the moon rose in the West, a chill descended as cold as the moon's pristine silver, but I did not mind for we rode under a velvety dark sky glittering with stars, and once the shouts and laughter of departure died away we settled into a silence broken only by the soft swish of camels' feet and the creak of wood and leather.

  At midnight we stopped to make camp, which seemed a great waste of time until Jacob explained to me that we would be on our way again long before dawn, and would not stop again until midday when the sun was at its peak. Nevertheless, it was a shock to me to find that every single pack camel was to be unloaded again, and fed and watered for these few hours, so that it was I who had to swallow impatience now. This making of camp led to a bedlam of roars from the camels and shouts from the men. A fire was kindled, creating a circle of gold that turned the stars pale and the faces of the men chiaroscuro as they sipped tea, hobbled the camels and moved back and forth in the flickering light. Somewhere among all the packs and crates there was a tent for Jacob and me, but in the semi-darkness it couldn't be found and I could hear him shouting angrily that it had not been packed on the animal selected for it.

  "Does it matter?" I asked wearily, for I was already stiff and sore from riding.

  "You don't understand," he flung at me curtly. "We shall lose face with these men if I don't assert control in every way. They're working for me, it's I who pay them."

  Once the bales had been assembled in a loose circle a few of the men abandoned the fire to scoop hollows in the earth to fit their bodies. Seeing them lie down to sleep I wrapped myself in a blanket and followed suit, finding the earth still warm from the sun. I lay drowsily watching the flames of the fire rise and fall, no more than a twinkle under the sky, and Jacob still rushing from bale to bale to look for his tent. Soon my eyes closed and for the scant four hours allowed us, I slept.

  We were like a small enclosed world moving slowly across stony ground toward the low bare hills of the Gharyan, riding eight and ten hours of the day and sleeping fitfully at odd hours. At first there were knots of wild flowers, olive trees and fields of esparto, but soon the vegetation thinned and we traveled a treeless dreary waste, dun-colored at first light, amber by noon, bronze by twilight, with only a few soft hills and sand ridges to ease the monotony, or a Bedouin camp glimpsed in the far distance. In Mizda we stopped for two days to buy more provisions and to rest, but Mizda was a cheerless village of stone houses and here we lost our escort of Turkish soldiers. When we left Mizda it was to head southwest, skirting the Hammada al-Hamra—the red stone desert—our destination Ghadamcs, and nothing between it and Mizda but long hours of riding and one solitary oasis.

  Mohammed had been right about a camel's pace threatening a person with sleep. It was not until we were into our second week of travel that I recovered from a terrible drowsiness brought on by the deadening monotony of long hours in the saddle, the searing heat by day, the bone-chilling cold at night. Of the crates of food Jacob had brought we listlessly opened only one small case that yielded sardines and canned peaches, and these I ate, over and over. The cameleers marveled at this, having never seen sardines before, and much preferring their millet, dates and cups of tea thickly laced with sugar. This tea was a ritual at every halt; Jacob would shout at the men, his watch in one hand, his compass in the other, pointing out that camels still had to be loaded and our departure was already late. Watching him I began to learn a little patience, seeing how little his tirades accomplished.

  One morning I woke from sleep to find myself anticipating the day ahead of us, suddenly aware of the freedom of caravan travel that was not so unlike carnival life. I began to see the wisdom of walking for a few hours at a time, my camel on a lead rope; I liked it when things went well and the men sang. Once there were rumors that a gazelle had been seen and Jacob and Umar rode off with rifles, and although they returned empty-handed the hope of meat had revitalized everyone. I also began to know some of the men, to smile and nod at the deaf-mute who rode a donkey, and Edrasi was particularly kind; it was possible that Mohammed had spoken to him of me in Tripoli, for he took time to occasionally ride or walk beside me and describe the wonders of Ghadames.

  "The most beautiful oasis Allah made," he said, speaking a mixture of Arabic and French, but somehow we came to understand one another's words, and I to learn new ones. Although it was Umar's job to guide us, and Edrasi's to manage the cameleers and the camels, Edrasi had made this trek many times, he said, and he pointed out nearly invisible landmarks of the trail we followed: the occasional fossilized camel print embedded in a rock, a small rise in the earth off to our left or right, the bones of a camel that had long ago died on the way to Ghadames.

  We were a five days' ride from Ghadames when Jacob lost his compass and with it his temper, and it was now that everything began to go wrong. He was furious at not finding his compass and spent his midday rest in retracing with Umar a few miles of our route, which seemed very foolish of him because the noon sun was merciless. He returned pale and defeated to furiously pry open crates in an attempt to find another compass, so that he took no rest or sleep at all and we were late in getting underway, and Jacob still without his compass. No sooner had we set out, however, than from the head of the caravan Umar shouted, "Gibleh! Subka!"

  In a frenzy the camels were couched, and bales and crates dragged from their backs. There was scarcely time to hobble them before the brassy smudge on the horizon rose with frightening speed into great towers of sickly yellow cloud that blotted out sun and sky. The storm hurled itself upon us with the velocity of a tornado. The roar of the wind sounded like the scream of a thousand devils—a bale of precious fodder blew past me and then an acacia tree from heaven only knows where, followed by a tent pole. I wrapped myself in my barracan and huddled close to my camel, the heat suffocating, and sand and dust penetrating even my cover. Worse, I might be surrounded by men and animals but I could see none of them nor be assured that I was not alone. For comfort I brought out Mr. Jappy and talked to him in a most demented way until, after an hour, I uncovered my head to find that I was nearly buried in sand, and had to dig myself out.

  For two more hours we endured this attack of nature, and when at last it stopped it was night; and a night without stars. We had lost two camels to the storm and three goatskin bags of water, and it was another hour before the camels were loaded again. It was Umar's advice that we travel all night to make up for the lost hours and this we proceeded to do.

  It was not until the sun rose the next morning that we discovered we'd been traveling in the wrong direction all night, heading to the south instead of to the southwest. Jacob's temper, not yet repaired, was lost again, and he flayed Umar with his anger at such a thing happening. This was also when two Tuareg rode across the reg toward us, hungry and asking for food. Seeing them I thought how Joe Laski of Laski's Traveling Shows would have loved to capture a Targui for his carnival: they were incredibly tall and incredibly spooky with their faces veiled in black and only their kohl-rimmed eyes showing. Each of them wore a dozen or more amulets strung around t
heir necks: tiny leather sacks, bits of silver, snips of feathers, and their swords were sheathed in leather with red and green designwork. The rifles they carried were old-fashioned ones, not at all like Jacob's 12-bore shotgun or 450 Cordite Express.

  "Well, give them something," Jacob said crossly, interrupting his talk with Edrasi and Umar, "and then for heaven's sake let's retrace our route. My God, we must have traveled 30 or 40 miles off course. Umar—" Realizing that he'd spoken in English again he upbraided the guide in Arabic. Whatever he said I couldn't understand, but Umar looked sullen. The pair of Tuareg asked for tea and sugar, which were absentmindedly given them, and while Jacob and Umar argued over what to do next, the Tuareg looked us all over and rode away.

  "If I'd not lost my compass—" snapped Jacob.

  Umar interrupted him to say he knew of a shortcut to the north if he could find it, and suggested that he ride to the sand ridge a mile away and look for landmarks. I watched his camel diminish in size, struggle up the hill and disappear. It was dull waiting, and I risked bringing out my finger puppet again to amuse myself until presently a party of men appeared over the sand ridge farther south and began riding toward us.

  Jacob, lifting binoculars to his eyes, began to swear. "Not Umar. Tuareg, a dozen of them."

  Next to him I heard Edrasi murmur, "I do not like this, sir."

  The Tuareg headed directly toward us, their figures changing shape and shimmering in the desert heat but as they drew nearer not only their shapes changed but their number: I counted twenty against our thirty. Edrasi's hand moved to the revolver tucked into his belt and we waited.

  This time as they reached us I saw that their swords were not sheathed. The leader of the party glanced at Jacob, but it was to Edrasi he spoke. He gave the Arabic greeting: His peace be with you, to which Edrasi, eyes narrowed, replied, Peace be to you. No evil, said the Tuareg. No evil, said Edrasi, followed by How are you?... No evil, thank God. May you and yours be safe, no evil, thank God.