Belkasem Ben Zebla was a butcher by trade. He was an ugly ball of a man, corpulent and hairy with a round fleshy face that jiggled when he walked. His arms were huge, with biceps as big as most men’s legs. His beard and mustache were as ragged as his manner. His foul temper had been distilled with rum, his face scarred in a thousand brawls.
The sun was nearly down but it was still hellishly hot. Belkasem’s mood was dark. Sheer lunacy, the lieutenant posting him out on the flank when there were plenty of good tirailleurs in the column. It was their business to do this, not his. He’d signed up to help with the cooking and the camels because the pay was nearly double what he could make in the souks of Wargla. Now there was nothing to cook, no camels to tend, and riflemen with nothing to do. Worse, they made him carry the colonel’s ceremonial sword. It wasn’t half the tool his cleaver was. It was too heavy and lacked a proper edge. He’d not even be able to trim camel meat with it, much less use it to take off the head of one of those blue devils. He carried it in his belt, keeping watch for a sharpening stone.
He had his eyes to the ground when he hesitated. Something caught his eye, a dark shape at the base of a hill. Something out of place. His eyesight was poor, it was true, but in this part of the desert dark shapes meant trouble. He wasn’t going to let it get much closer. He took the carbine off his neck where he’d been resting his hands on it like a yoke. He raised it and narrowed his eyes. He waited nervously, wondering if he should shout to the column. Instead he kept his rifle high and walked cautiously forward, squinting harder to see better.
The men squatted around six small campfires, warming tiny portions of dried meat and rice over the wood they’d collected and carried during the day. Conversation was subdued around the fires, the mood grim. El Madani sat before one of them, absently scratching Floop behind the ears. The dog was lying listlessly on his stomach, head between his paws, barely opening his eyes at movements around the fire. The men chewed the tough meat slowly, trying to draw out the flavor as long as possible. El Madani slipped a piece to Floop. The dog hadn’t been hunting and was surely starving. Floop nosed at it indifferently.
A group of men from another fire, finished with their portions, came over to join those around Madani’s fire. From the darkness one of them spoke.
“Leftovers? Anyone got leftovers?” It was Belkasem the butcher.
“Back at Tadjenout,” someone said. “Take your lard ass back there and bring us all some.” Belkasem glared at him. The group around the fire opened up to let them in. They would talk awhile and then try to sleep for three hours, and march again before dawn.
Suddenly Floop’s head jerked up. El Madani felt it and looked at the dog. Floop whined as if unsure, his head cocked, tail moving slowly. He got up and trotted over to the newcomers, sniffing. Then he barked excitedly, his nose at Belkasem’s feet, poking around under the butcher’s robes. Belkasem kicked savagely at him, but Floop bounded back undeterred, tail cranking wildly, his barking more excited. The butcher kicked again. The mutt was all over him, and the others were laughing. Face flushed, Belkasem reached for a rock.
“Where did you get those boots?” Belkasem dropped his rock and looked up. El Madani towered above him, his wizened old face drawn tight in anger. The chatter around the fire died.
“Answer me.”
Sweating, Belkasem looked at the men around him for support. All eyes were on his boots. Like them, he had never worn anything but sandals. A deadly quiet settled over them. Jowls quaking, Belkasem looked up at El Madani and saw the fire in his eyes.
“They… they’re mine,” he stammered weakly. “I… I’ve had them—”
“Liar!” El Madani roared, his pistol in Belkasem’s face, the cold barrel stabbing at the fleshy cheek.
“I found them!” said the butcher quickly, shrinking back in terror. “As Allah is my witness, I found them today! Someone left them on the trail! It is true, I swear it!”
“What’s the meaning of this?” Lieutenant Dianous stepped quickly through the ring of men and saw the pistol. “Madani, what’s going on?”
“Belkasem’s boots, Lieutenant. He has a new pair. I think they belong to Lieutenant deVries.” Floop was sure of it, sniffing and pawing at them.
Dianous looked at the boots, then at the dog, and finally at Belkasem’s face, now quivering with fear. His voice was deathly quiet. “You have precisely thirty seconds to explain yourself, Belkasem. If what you say isn’t satisfactory, I shall direct El Madani to interview you privately. Away from camp.”
Racing through the moonlight, nose to the ground and barking loudly, Floop found him first. The others followed more slowly. El Madani led the way. Behind him, a barefoot Belkasem stepped painfully through the sharp rocks, carrying the boots. Hakeem’s face was lit with excitement as he walked alongside Sergeant Pobeguin, a tough veteran from Brittany. Two tirailleurs brought up the rear. They heard the dog’s pitch change. Hakeem, the youngest, broke away from the group, running up and over a hill.
“He’s here!” he cried. “Here, here! The patron is alive!”
El Madani glared at Belkasem with a look of rage and relief. The butcher saw only the rage. He held up his hands, imploring, holding the boots like a shield. “I swear I thought he was dead. I swear it! Praise be to Allah, the lieutenant lives!” Belkasem was near tears, his voice shaking. El Madani hurried ahead.
Paul was lying on his back, head cradled in Hakeem’s lap. The boy was giving him water, mumbling, “Ça va, Patron, ça va, ça va,” and trying to swat Floop away. The dog was beside himself, all tongue, paws, and tail. Next to Paul’s feet lay Belkasem’s sandals. The food bag had spilled, leaving dates and flour everywhere.
El Madani knelt by Paul’s side. Paul coughed weakly. “Hamdullilah,” Madani whispered. The tirailleur touched Paul’s face. “He’s burning with fever.” He stripped off his turban and soaked the cotton with water, then draped it over Paul’s head. He saw Floop licking Paul’s hand. He lifted it and carefully unwound the bandage. “Agrab,” he muttered.
Belkasem arrived, puffing. “Hamdullilah,” he said when he saw Paul. “It is true, he is back from the dead! A miracle!” The others stared at him. He avoided their eyes.
They picked Paul up and set him onto a blanket. Hakeem spread another one over him, and the six of them picked up the makeshift litter by the edges and hurried into the night, Floop barking at their heels.
The men at camp had expected to see a burial detail. When they saw the group returning with Paul in the blanket they raised a jubilant cheer. It was the first good omen they’d had in the four days since the massacre. One of their number had been snatched from Tuareg death, and they all felt the triumph. A lean-to was hastily constructed with blankets and rifles. With the doctor’s supplies and Hakeem’s help El Madani set about attending to Paul. In the next few hours Lieutenant Dianous stopped by frequently, his eyebrows raised in question. After a time El Madani, looking stark naked without his turban, his silver and black hair shining in the moonlight, was able to look at him and smile. “Ça va, Lieutenant,” he said. “II va vivre.”
Paul slept through the night, sometimes dead to the world, other times drifting, wonderfully warm and comfortable, feeling Floop’s body next to him or dimly seeing El Madani, giving him a cup of something. He swallowed its contents gratefully and slept again.
They carried him on the next day’s march, the men taking turns at the blanket, ignoring the heat and shading his head from the sun. Paul slept the entire time, awakening only to eat the broth Hakeem brought, and to drink. Outcast and scowling, Belkasem walked at the end of the column, his old sandals showing under his robes as he walked. He still carried the colonel’s sword, but Lieutenant Dianous had taken his rifle. Had he stolen from a fellow Muslim and not been in the service of the French, his hand would have been forfeit as well. “You will be dealt with in Wargla,” Dianous told him.
They marched after dark until they lost the moon and had to stop. Fires were started with the last of the wood, and the meals began cooking. Paul got up and joined the officers and El Madani at their fire, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders to keep out the cold. He looked worse than he felt.
“The dead man walks,” said Dianous. Paul sat down and took a cup of tea and a small plate of food. The night was cold and clear. A steady breeze blew from the plain, fanning the fire.
“What happened back there, at base camp?” Paul asked. He nodded toward the mountains. “I never thought I’d see you again.”
“They won,” El Madani shrugged. “Our effort was for nothing. The camels bolted about the same time you did. They got them all. And then” – there was an edge to his voice, as if he wanted to say something but didn’t – “and then we just… waited at base camp all the rest of that day. Didn’t even try to get them back until that night. By then it was too late.”
Dianous stiffened, but his eyes didn’t leave the fire. “I expected another attack. It never came.”
“When we finally tried we lost twelve more men. It was another slaughter. Of ninety-eight men we have fifty-three left. Fifty-four – you came back from the dead.” El Madani thought of something lighter. “Floop was the only one to escape. He must have found himself in their camp and decided to leave. I imagine he got out with some of their food.” He smiled. “More than that, w’allahi. He coughed up blue thread for a day.”
“We have four or five wounded,” Dianous said. “They can all still walk. We have water, enough until we arrive at Temassint the day after tomorrow.” It was the last well the caravan had stopped at on the way south. “We have food for two or three days, and then it’s done.”
Paul thought of the small helping of rice and dried meat he’d just eaten, and of the mountain of provisions he’d assembled in Wargla. He felt guilty for eating at all. Floop was crunching contentedly on the bones of some small animal he’d found and didn’t notice the shortage.
“We’re nearly a thousand kilometers from Wargla,” Dianous said. “If we don’t get lost, that is. If we can average twenty-five kilometers a day that’s forty days. Forty days on foot, without food. I don’t know about the water. If we can even find it, we’ll have to carry what we need.”
“How much water can a man carry?” Paul wondered.
“I don’t know, with weapons and the heat. Twenty or thirty liters. Not enough. It doesn’t matter anyway. We lost most of our water bags at Tadjenout.”
A silence fell over the officers. One could walk the whole of France the longest way, and not travel a thousand kilometers.
“Thank God it isn’t summer,” Pobeguin said.
El Madani snorted. “You’ll think it’s summer.” “The only thing we have plenty of is ammunition,” Dianous said. “Everyone has a rifle, some more than one. Most have pistols. We haven’t seen the Tuareg since Tadjenout. Maybe they’re content with their camels and the horses, and will leave us alone.”
El Madani grunted. “Don’t be such a fool,” he said. “They will be content with our blood.”
Paul flinched at the obvious disrespect. Yet Dianous let it pass. El Madani’s views of the Tuareg, always expressed openly on the way south, had taken on considerable weight since Tadjenout, Dianous thought too much of the man’s experience and cunning to treat him like an enlisted man in any event. The old man was an intimidating presence. If in some perversion of standard military practice competence somehow aligned with rank, it would be General Madani giving the orders, and they all knew it.
“If Madani’s right and the Tuareg are nearby we should find them and fight,” Paul said. “Take our camels back.”
Dianous shook his head. “We’ll never find them.”
“We missed our chance,” El Madani said. “Now they’ll find us.”
“That’s enough, Madani,” Dianous snapped.
Pobeguin asked Paul about his own experiences. As best he could remember, he told them everything that had happened since he’d fled from behind the camels. Almost everything. He didn’t know how or what to explain about Moussa, so he said nothing, leaving out the cave. He ended his story with the loss of his water. He couldn’t remember anything after that.
“Mais, mon lieutenant,” Pobeguin said, puzzled. He was a cheerful, hearty man with a full thick beard and lively eyes. “You didn’t lose your water. I found your Targui’s water bag just next to you. It’s the only one like it we have. It was nearly full. The ground was wet around your head. You’d poured the water all over yourself before you passed out.” Paul gave him a blank look. El Madani was deep in thought and said nothing of the camel tracks he had seen.
Dianous was puzzled. “The first night you were unconscious under the Targui. The second, you were bitten. The third, we found you. N’est-ce pas?” Paul nodded at the summary. “But we didn’t find you until the fourth day after Tadjenout,” Dianous said. “You lost a night somewhere.”
Paul hadn’t thought to account for the extra night. He shrugged. “I guess I might have forgotten the harem.” He grinned. “They kept me longer than I thought. The women here are crazy for love.”
El Madani joined in the laughter, but his mind was on the tracks.
That night as Paul drifted off to sleep, he thought of the water. He had warned Moussa to stay away, and obviously he had not. It changed nothing.
In the morning he not only felt but looked better as well. El Madani was pleased. Paul’s hand had returned to nearly its normal size, but the tirailleur told him to watch it closely. “It can rot,” he said, “like your brains must have already done when you went poking around those rocks in the first place.”
Paul laughed sheepishly. Madani studied his face. “May I ask, Lieutenant, where you learned to treat the wound of the agrab in such a manner?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember what I did, exactly. I must have put something on it.”
“That is most interesting,” El Madani said. “The only people I know who do it that way are the Tuareg.”
“Lucky coincidence, I suppose.”
“Amazing, is more like it. From your reaction that was a highly venomous scorpion. Should have killed you. I found a paste in the wound where you had cut it, from a plant called the effellem. It is extraordinary you would know to use it, Lieutenant. Even more so that you would have it with you.”
Paul shifted uncomfortably. “I told you – there’s a lot I don’t remember.”
Madani nodded. “Oui, Lieutenant,” he agreed. “A lot.”
The column stirred to life in the blackness before the dawn. Sergeant Pobeguin was the first up, checking that the sentries remained alert, making flank assignments and seeing to it that all the food and water was collected. Excess clothes and blankets were abandoned. The men had begun their retreat carrying as much as they could hold, but they had been fresher then, and their eyes for what was important had been bigger then than their resolve after five days of walking. They jettisoned everything they could and still struggled with their loads.
Paul watched them, disturbed. “Only five days. Already they look worn out, and they still have water and food,” he said to Dianous. “They don’t look in shape to make it another week.”
Dianous said nothing. His silence made Paul think wistfully of Remy, whose company he missed terribly.
Paul carried a new rifle, food and water, a blanket, and a robe. He tied everything together and slung it over his good shoulder. He’d lost his broad-brimmed hat that had been specially made in Paris. It had provided excellent protection from the sun, but only Pobeguin and Dianous still had theirs. Paul knelt at one of the abandoned piles of clothing and ripped a shirt into lengths, tying the ends together and wrapping it around his head.
He noticed Sandeau, one of the engineers, struggling to keep up at the rear of the column. He was a frail, slender man, his bony frame lost in the too-big clothes he wore. He had a bookish, kindly face and was well into middle age. His shoulders sagged and his spindly legs wobbled as he fought to control the bags on his back. His face was drawn and pale. A cloud of flies hovered around him, invading his eyes, nose, and mouth. The engineer’s hands were occupied with his load, so he was trying to blow them off, blinking and squinting and working his face to get them away with little success. Paul strode up to him and brushed them away.
“Here, let me carry those for you,” he said.
Sandeau looked sideways up at the younger, taller man and shook his head. “Non, merci,” he said, “you’ve had a harder time of it than I, Lieutenant. I’ll be all right. Just slow, that’s all.”
Without arguing Paul lifted the water and food bags off Sandeau’s shoulders. The man started to protest, but the relief in his eyes was evident as he felt the load lift.
“Bless you, Lieutenant.” He sighed. “Just when one thinks he can go no farther, the Lord sees his burden and lightens it.” He looked out at the plain and at the long line of men stretching out before them toward the horizon. He brushed at the flies that had returned to plague him. “I’m going to die here.” He said it lightly, matter-of-factly, as he might have said, “It’s cold this morning.”
Paul scoffed. “Nonsense, Sandeau, we’re all going to make it back.” He thought his own voice sounded hollow as he said it. He hoped Sandeau hadn’t noticed.
The engineer only smiled. “Don’t worry about it on my account, Lieutenant. I don’t mind. Really I don’t. I’ve drawn my bridges and planned my roads. My wife died last year.”
He waved his hand as Paul started to say something. “It’s why I came along. I’ve nothing left at home, nothing to keep me. And I’m tired of drawing, actually. I think I liked bridges best. Roads are so boring. You don’t ever really think much about a road, except where it might be taking you. But a bridge – ah, now there’s a work of art. Something to admire, something solid spanning the impassable.” His eyes were animated.
“I did the bridge over the Seine at Rouen. Do you know it?” Paul shook his head. “No matter; it’s lovely. The river’s wide there. They used ferries before. Pay and wait, wait and pay. Sink and drown, sometimes. But no more. It was my best work, I think. I have a photograph of it at home. Steel and concrete, a perfect design. It’s beautiful, free, fast, and won’t sink.” He limped along, trying to hurry as he talked, but they were dropping farther back from the column.
“My wife thought this railroad idea was just the thing. She read about it in the papers. She was quite sick for a long time, confined to bed, and read a lot. Talked more than ever, which I’d have thought impossible. Talked my ears off at night. She said I ought to show them how a railroad was done. She knew she was going to die. I think she wanted to be sure I had something to do afterward.” He was quiet for a moment, remembering. His eyes misted. He waved at the desert. “I didn’t understand this place before. Just what she read me. Even without the Tuareg, I’ve seen what fools they are in Paris. They’ll never put a railroad here, Lieutenant, not in two hundred years. Oh, you could build one, all right, but it wouldn’t last. The dunes would smother it, and the rains would wash it away. The only things that survive here are things that can adapt. A railroad can’t adapt. It’s why I’m going to die; I’m afraid I can’t, either.” He stumbled on a rock. Paul helped steady him.
“Thank you, Lieutenant. Would you care to pray with me?” Paul shook his head. Sandeau shut his eyes and held Paul’s arm for guidance as he walked. “Hail, holy queen, mother of mercy, our life, our sweetness, and our hope. To you do we cry, poor banished children of Eve, to you do we send up our sighs, mourning and weeping in this valley of tears…”
The engineer’s voice had a pleasing, soothing rhythm. Paul remembered the words. He’d said them many times at St. Paul’s. But now he felt as empty as the plain, and no words could fill him up. Sandeau crossed himself and opened his eyes. They were brighter.
“Thank you for your help, Lieutenant. I’ll be fine.”
“Call out if you need anything.” Paul squeezed him on the shoulder and walked ahead. The sun was barely up over the horizon, but already promised a blistering day. Paul knew most of the men he passed, greeting them by name. Most were subdued, their expressions grim. When he passed Belkasem, puffing hard from the strain of walking, their eyes met. The butcher looked away. El Madani had told Paul what the man had done. Paul felt no bitterness, but no particular forgiveness, either. He was glad the man hadn’t killed him instead of just stealing the boots.
Within an hour Paul was sagging under the extra weight of Sandeau’s bags. He had tried to do too much too quickly. Hakeem saw it and reproached him. “Even camels have enough sense to complain when overloaded. Surely the patron is shrewder than a camel?” Paul laughed and gave up one of the bags. The boy shouldered it effortlessly.
Of all the men in the column, only Hakeem and Pobeguin seemed to treat the situation as if it were an adventure. Their spirits were chronically high. Pobeguin sang as they walked, loud and off key, stopping only when a pebble struck him on the back. He turned and glared at the silent line of Algerians trudging behind him, but then he laughed, and sang even louder. He was a practical man and quickly took over the rationing of food and water. He announced when it was all right to drink, permitting it much less frequently than they would have liked, but occasionally going without himself, to offer an example. The man’s energy was boundless. Even when broiling he seemed to bounce when he walked. By noon, his vitality was annoying.
The two French troopers, Brame and Marjolet, stayed close together. Brame was a lanky, good-looking Parisian with a shock of black hair and a slender face. He had been Flatters’s much-abused batman. For him, the quiet retreat was a blessed contrast to serving the volatile colonel, and he seemed almost content. His chin showed the first sproutings of a beard. The colonel had insisted he shave, as had Brame’s father before him, so the first personal items he abandoned for the return march were his shaving things. Marjolet was a tall, strapping dark-skinned youth from southern France who’d enlisted when his family’s vineyards died of disease. He cooked for the French members of the expedition, selected by Flatters for the task in that sacred military tradition of choosing only men who couldn’t cook to be cooks. Paul supposed that only he himself would have been a better choice.
Pobeguin’s singing eventually died. Those who had listened didn’t know whether to feel grateful or not, because in the silence the sun seemed to press in more than ever, the plain shimmering with relentless fire. Weary feet shuffled on endless gravel, making the only noise except for an occasional dry cough or murmured conversation. With no reference points on the horizon, there was no way to mark their progress. It appeared as if they weren’t moving, that they were trudging along some massive and cruel treadmill, going nowhere at all.
In the afternoon Dianous called a short rest halt. The men gratefully collapsed on the ground, and Pobeguin let them drink. Men propped blankets over rifles or swords to make shelter. Some tried to sleep but found it impossible. Others sat motionless, staring into the void.
Suddenly one of the sentries approached at a run, raising a distant shout. His figure looked oddly compressed by the distortion of the heat, the light playing tricks with his body. At first he seemed to be running with no legs, and then he was running on air. The effect might have been comical except he was clearly alarmed, waving his arms and yelling. Paul and Dianous ran to meet him. Out of breath and sweating hard, he pointed east.
“Les Tuareg, Lieutenant,” he panted.
“El Madani! Pobeguin! Quickly!” The four of them followed the sentry. After a few minutes they came to a fault line where the plain dropped sharply away and then stretched out into the distance. The sentry motioned them down and they crawled to the edge.
Below them, a few hundred meters away, rode a long column of meharistes. Paul drew in his breath. There were nearly two hundred Tuareg, all mounted, riding on a course parallel to their own. He could faintly hear their conversation and laughter.
Dianous studied them through his field glasses. “Merde,” he said quietly. He handed the glasses to Paul, who rested on his elbows to stare through them. The long column was well provisioned, equipped with extra pack camels, all fully loaded. A few of the Tuareg carried the Gras rifles they’d captured. As his glasses swept along the column he was overtaken with rage.
The Tuareg had taken six prisoners at Tadjenout. The men were walking in a gap between the ranks of their captors. It was the manner in which they were forced to walk that was so horrible. Paul nearly cried out for them. None of them wore shirts. Even from the distance, their skin showed blistered and raw. Leather hoods had been forced over their heads. Paul could only imagine the agony they caused as they squeezed tightly, blinding them and magnifying the terrible heat.
The first man in the line of prisoners had had a metal ring forced down under his shoulder blade. His back was covered with blood and he was clearly the weakest of them all. Two ropes were attached to the ring. One led to the tail of the camel in front of him, the other back to the second prisoner in line, where it had been tied tightly like a noose, and the rope passed from him to the next, on to the end. Each movement of the camel had a ripple effect down the wretched line. If the lead prisoner couldn’t time his motions to coincide with those of the faster camel, the rope pulled at the ring, and he screamed under his hood, lurching forward. The motion would jerk at the nooses around the necks of those who followed, choking them. If one of them stumbled the others fell, and only when the whole group was down would the Targui on the lead camel stop to let them get up.
“God have mercy on them,” Paul whispered. He let the field glasses down, thought for a moment, then turned to Dianous. “We’ve got to take them. We’ve got to attack.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Dianous said. “They outnumber us four to one. They’ve got camels. We’re on foot. There’s nothing we can do except guarantee the prisoners will die.”
“They can’t have much ammunition. We’ve got plenty.”
“You don’t know what they have. We cannot mount a direct attack.”
“Then we could do it tonight. Raid their camp, steal some camels, and set the prisoners free.”
“And kill some Tuareg,” El Madani muttered. Pobeguin grunted in assent.
Dianous shook his head. “They know exactly where we are. They know we’re well armed. Do you think they won’t have guards posted? Do we just walk into camp, excuse ourselves and simply walk off with everything?” There was scorn, but something more in his voice. Paul couldn’t quite make out what it was.
“We could mount an attack from the far side of their camp,” Paul insisted. “Divert them, then send in some other men from this side.”
Dianous was having none of it. “They’d be expecting something like that. The prisoners would be dead before you could even find them.”
Paul pointed at the tormented line of prisoners staggering below them. “Look at them, for God’s sake. They’ll die anyway, if we don’t try.”
Madani agreed. “I think we could do it, sir,” he said. “Two hours before dawn. It’s worth a try.”
Dianous straightened himself up to a sitting position. His eyes narrowed, his temper flaring. “I’m telling you it’s stupid,” he snapped. “I won’t permit it.”
Paul sat up beside him, his teeth clenched. “All right, forget the prisoners,” he hissed. “That column is going to follow us until we have no more strength. Do you want to fight them in twenty days, where they choose, or fight them now, while we still can? It’s a hundred degrees. We’re on foot and just about out of food. How many days do you think we can do it? How many days do you think Sandeau can make it? We can ride back to Wargla on those camels, Dianous. At least we’ll have a chance!”
“That will be enough, Lieutenant,” Dianous said coldly. He waved at the flat below them. “This isn’t the time or the place to attack. It’s too flat, too exposed. We will continue marching north until we find a more appropriate location. That’s an order, Lieutenant. I have permitted too much discussion already. Now I’m through talking about it. Get back to camp.”
“ ‘A more appropriate location’?” Paul repeated the words incredulously. “What are you talking about? Don’t you remember the ride south? It’s all like this, until Amguid. It won’t get any better. For God’s sake, man, we’ve got to do something!” Paul had pulled himself up close to Dianous, their faces nearly touching, the anger about to explode.
“Shut up, damn you!” Dianous was seething, his voice icy. “Perhaps you didn’t hear my order, Lieutenant. The matter is closed. We will march north. North! If you persist in challenging me, I’ll have you arrested. Is that clear?”
“Come on, Dianous, surely—” But Dianous waved him silent and raised his voice.
“I said, is that clear, Lieutenant?”
For a moment Paul only looked at him, trying to comprehend. Embarrassed, Pobeguin looked away. At last Paul nodded. Dianous stood up and took the field glasses out of his hands.
“Now get back to the column, all of you.” He turned and strode off. The others watched him go in silence. Stunned, Paul shook his head.
“It’s the heat,” Pobeguin said lamely.
“Camel shit,” snapped Madani. “It’s Tadjenout all over again. The man is a—”
“A what?” Paul asked.
“Nothing. Forget it.”
They turned back to look at the Tuareg column. For a long time no one spoke. They watched the prisoners struggle in their torment.
“Maybe we should shoot them now,” Paul said. “We could each take two. It would stop the agony for them, anyway.”
El Madani laid his hand on Paul’s shoulder and shook his head. “It is not for us to take their lives,” he said quietly. “If they die at the hands of the Tuareg, mektoub. It is written.”
Paul bit his lip and stared below. Madani gave him a gentle shake. “Leave it for now. It is for him to command. If we forget that, it is anarchy. We will all die then.”
He and Pobeguin rose to go. “Are you coming, Lieutenant?”
“I’ll be along after a while.” He watched until the Tuareg column became blurred by the distance and heat. The pathetic figures of the prisoners were lost behind the camels. He lay on his stomach, resting his head on his arms. He stared out at the empty plain, trying to make sense of it.
Suddenly Floop ran up and pounced on him, licking wildly through Paul’s protests, nuzzling his nose into Paul’s armpits until he couldn’t ignore him anymore. They wrestled, rolling over and over each other on the gravel. When they were tired they lay back down and rested. The sun was low in the sky when they returned to the column.
There were no fires in camp that night. They’d run out of wood, and had found no camel dung during the day. They ate their portions of rice raw, crunching noisily on the grain. Most of the men turned in early, exhausted, while others sat around talking. The news of the Tuareg and their prisoners had traveled quickly through the ranks, as had word of Dianous’s refusal to attack. El Madani tried to quiet the talk, but with only partial success. Paul was standing at the edge of the camp, looking out onto the plain, when one of the tirailleurs, Mustafa ben Jardi, approached him. The tirailleur was clearly nervous, and spent more than twice the usual time inquiring about the state of things in Paul’s life. Normally on the expedition their greetings were short and to the point, but Mustafa took advantage of their solitude to be more circumspect, more Algerian, in his approach.
“Bonsoir, Lieutenant,” Mustafa said. “Comment allez-vous?”
“Bien, merci, Mustafa.”
“Very well? Praise God, after your most terrible trials alone.”
“Oui, very well. And you?”
“I am very fine tonight, Allah be praised, for it is very beautiful under His sky. Your wonderful dog, Floop, he is in good form?”
“Yes, he is.”
“And your father, his health is good?”
“My father has been dead many years.”
Mustafa looked truly wounded. “A great tragedy. Yet it is Allah who is enriched with his presence now. But your mother, all is well with her?”
“She is well.”
“Hamdullilah,” Mustafa said. “May she live long and well, in Allah’s beneficence. And your brothers, they too are well?”
“I haven’t any.”
“Ah, a pity, truly. All men should be blessed with brothers. Surely your sisters are plentiful, and are well with their children and husbands?”
“I haven’t any sisters, either,” Paul said, hoping the response would bring the interminable politeness to an end. Once Hakeem, seeing his impatience with the custom, had advised him to simply say, “My family and relatives all died of the plague ten years ago,” thus shortening the formalities.
“Your wife is fine, I pray?”
“I have no wife, and no children, either.”
“That is indeed too bad, Lieutenant, that the world does not yet know the produce of your excellent line.” Mustafa shook his head sadly. “A man such as yourself, to be unmarried, not to leave the world his offspring…” He reflected a moment on the tragedy. “I have heard the president of France is a brave and wise man,” he said. “I hope he is well.”
Paul murmured a vague assent.
“And his wife—”
Paul could take no more. “There is something on your mind, Mustafa?”
The man lowered his eyes to the ground. “Oui, mon lieutenant. If you will permit me to speak frankly.” He looked around, as though someone might be listening.
“Of course.”
“We have heard about the prisoners with the Tuareg.”
“Yes.”
“We think that the mokkadem is among them. He was at the well. No one saw his body afterward. Without him we have no one to lead us in prayer.”
Paul nodded. “He may have been with them,” he said. “I couldn’t tell. They all wore… hoods.”
“Oui, Lieutenant, that is my point. If he is dead, mektoub, but if he is among them and being treated in this manner by the godless sons of camel turds the Tuareg, it is infamy that must be avenged. We cannot leave him in their hands.”
“And what do you want?”
“Well,” he said, lowering his voice, “we have heard that Lieutenant Dianous has refused to attack the Tuareg.” He cleared his throat. “And that you, well, that you felt differently.” Paul fought to control his anger. The sentry had talked. “We want you to know that we are willing to go with you, to fight like men. We wish to take the prisoners back.”
Paul looked at him. “Who is ‘we,’ Mustafa?”
“There are twenty-five or thirty others who feel as I do. Lieutenant Dianous would not attack after the massacre. He will not attack now. He will not attack tomorrow. He is – how should I say it? – too apprehensive. We are ready to obey your commands. We can leave tonight.”
Paul didn’t want to alienate the man, but he was growing uncomfortable with the way the conversation was heading. “I understand,” he said at last, “but for the moment there is nothing I can do. Lieutenant Dianous is right. No attack is practical just now.” Mustafa eyed him for a moment, a skeptical look on his face. “But we heard that you—”
“I don’t care what you heard, Mustafa. It was untrue. I agree with the lieutenant. We shall have the prisoners back. We shall avenge the mokkadem. But we must wait. There is no other way.”
Mustafa clearly didn’t believe him, but he was not leading a mutiny, simply making an inquiry. He knew of nothing more to say. “Very well, Lieutenant,” he said, leaving, “but if you change your mind, you must please to let me know.”
After the others had gone to bed Paul tried to raise the subject once again with Dianous, who abruptly got up and stalked off.
Paul’s sleep was troubled, his mind in turmoil. First El Madani, then Mustafa had subtly or openly accused Dianous of failure to act at Tadjenout. Of – cowardice. But Paul hadn’t been there and couldn’t make a judgment. Yet he had been there a few hours ago.
He found no answers that night.
“By what right have you taken this course with the French?”
Moussa thundered out the words. He had ridden hard into the camp of the Ihaggaren, riding his mehari straight through the swarms of Tuareg until he stood over the central fire of the camp. He looked down upon Attici, who was sitting at the fire. Next to him sat Mahdi and a man Moussa did not know. Attici looked up at the intrusion.
“I will forgive your rudeness, Moussa, as you are clearly agitated. It does not become a nobleman of the Kel Rela to forget himself so. This courtesy, even the smallest child of the Hoggar has learned.” Mahdi filled his cup with tea, and then the others’. “Come down from your mighty mehari. Join us for tea.” He spoke as if to a child.
“I ask again,” Moussa said, not moving. “By what right have you become a butcher?”
“Regard the back of my mehari,” Attici said pleasantly, “where the tobol now rides. Have you not seen it?”
“Then it is the amenokal who told you to do this to the French? This was his decision?”
“If it is your business, Moussa, the amenokal was not specific, and left the matter in my hands. He told me only to ‘discourage’ Sheikh Flatters. I believe he is thoroughly discouraged now.” There was laughter around the fire.
“Did he tell you to hack them to pieces? Is this your notion of honorable battle, to surprise and butcher an enemy? Even mouflon we do not mangle so.”
“What ikufar is worthy of being butchered so kindly as a mouflon?” Tamrit asked. There was more laughter. “Is it that the Frenchmen are dead that troubles you, rude one, or that they are in pieces?”
“Who is this man, Attici, who sits at your right hand?”
“Tamrit ag Amellal,” Tamrit replied. “And you would be the tender son of the barbarian deVries?”
Moussa slid from his mount, his hand on his sword. “Hold your tongue, Tamrit, unless you are ready to lose it.”
Tamrit stirred angrily. “It is for respect of your mother that I do not take your head. Speak so again and I shall forget myself.”
Moussa spoke scornfully to Attici. “You are surrounded by Senussi then? Is it they who lead you like a lamb? It is they who feed the fires of hatred and treachery?”
“No one leads but I,” Attici replied evenly.
“Then there is much blood on your hands. Never have I seen such savagery visited upon a foe by the Ihaggaren,” Moussa said.
“Perhaps you have not lived among us long enough to have seen it,” Mahdi said. “Perhaps you should return to France as a true ikufar, where the sights are more to your liking.”
“Was Tadjenout a sight for liking?” Moussa challenged the others standing nearby. “Was Tadjenout a battlefield of honor?”
“Our honor is intact,” Mahdi said hotly. “Is deception not a weapon long used between enemies? Is surprise not a weapon, like the sword? Where advantage can be seen, it must be taken. And if our cause were unjust, Allah would not have ensured our victory.”
“Through all of history we have warred with the Tebu and the Shamba,” Moussa said. “The rules of war are well known among our tribes. But we never spoke of war with the French, who expected peaceful passage. And then the limbs severed, the heads taken at Tadjenout. Is such the noble work we do?”
“I will not argue this with you, Moussa. You are not speaking as Ihaggaren. Your words are soft, like those from a lamb.”
“Then tell me this much. What are your intentions now? Those who survived are across the hill, on a parallel course. For what purpose are you following them? Another slaughter?”
“Say nothing,” Tamrit said.
“He is of no consequence,” Attici said with a contemptuous wave of his hand. “Do I fear the bite of the French puppy?” He looked at Moussa. “They will continue to be ‘discouraged’ back to Wargla,” he said, enjoying the word. “And from there to France, to carry the message to their countrymen that to mark a place French on the map does not make it so. That the Hoggar is no place for French adventure. Nor even a place to visit.”
“They will not make it to Wargla. You have stolen their camels and they have but little food. They will die within a fortnight.”
“Camels are the legitimate booty of war,” Attici snapped. “Whether the infidels and their Shamba dogs reach Wargla is of no concern to me. Their destiny is in the hands of Allah.”
“No,” Moussa said. “Not in Allah’s hands. In your hands just now.”
“Where is the difference? My hands move at His pleasure.” Attici was losing his patience. “I have said it already – I am not content to debate these matters with you. You should tend the business the amenokal assigned you and remove yourself from matters that trouble you so. Or have you cast your lot with the barbarians?”
For the second time in three days Moussa heard himself saying the same words. “I have cast my lot with no one in this.”
“That is a matter within your control,” Attici said. “There are many of us who will watch your actions with great interest. Now join with us, or leave the camp.”
Moussa turned. A score of Tuareg stood behind him, listening to the exchange.
“Who among you will quit this? Who has had a fill of it? Who has not forgotten how to treat travelers such as those who now walk on the other side of that hill, when they are without food and water? Fight them later if you will, but for now extend to them the hospitality of the desert.”
“They are not common travelers,” one said. “They are foreign scum. Invaders, not entitled to the desert’s just laws.”
“Eoualla,” said another. “Foreigners. Like you.” Moussa struck him, and the man dropped like a stone. No one else moved, but Moussa sensed in many of them a hostility he had never felt before. He took the lead of his mehari and led it through the crowd. Taka sat atop the pommel of the saddle, her head turning and nodding. She was nervous.
Attici’s voice followed him to the edge of camp.
“Do not interfere in this, Moussa. It will go hard on you.”
Taher, his old friend, caught up with him just out of camp.
“You have spoken truly. The French were tricked and then betrayed. It was bloodlust at Tadjenout. I have not seen the like of it. Once begun there was no stopping it. It was as if they were possessed, Moussa. I do not know the answer of it, except that Tamrit has said much to inflame them. I did not help them.”
“Nor I,” said Moussa. “But the result is the same.”
“It is true. Many are not acting themselves in this. I will ride with you, Moussa, if it pleases you.”
“No, Taher, but thanks. In this I am alone.”
They arrived at the well of Temassint the following afternoon. It was situated in a large sandy wadi in the plain. There was a forlorn acacia tree there, flat-topped and twisted from the wind, and a few bushes, but the way the men whooped and cheered it might have been the lush oasis of Wargla.
Most of the men collapsed around the wadi, their leaden limbs heavy and sluggish from the sun. The first four or five fought for position under the acacia, but its shade was hardly worth the effort. Pobeguin detailed some of the others to set about the laborious task of refilling the water skins. Temassint was not a well with solid sides to it, such as at Tadjenout. It was a tilma, a seeper. A man could stand on top of it and die of thirst, never knowing it was there. The sand had to be dug out to a level where it became damp, and then deeper, until it got wet. Only two or three bags could be filled before the waiting began again.
Near the well they found evidence of their prior passage, including broken baskets, ashes from campfires, and, to their delight, food. They were grateful for what now appeared to be profligacy on the way south. There were dates that earlier seemed rock hard and had been discarded, but which now looked juicy and perfect. Bits of rice were strewn about, and even little pieces of meat, rejected by complacent men with full bellies. No one was suffering from extreme hunger yet, for they still had a little food. But Pobeguin got a detail working to collect everything. The men chattered excitedly and scooted around on the scorching black rock, salvaging even single grains of rice. When the area had been picked clean Pobeguin divided everything as equally as he could. Each man received a small handful.
Djemel, the chief camel driver, had been desolate on the return trip without his charges, and busied himself collecting their dung for the fires. Djemel’s father had been a camelman, and his father before him. He was a short, hyperactive coil of a man, all sinew and passion wrapped in a sickly green turban, dyed permanently that color from camel saliva. His most notable features were his temper, which was legendary, and his nose, which was missing. During one of his heated arguments with a camel the beast had bitten it off. It was said that Djemel had bitten the camel first, but he never talked about the incident and had long since learned to put up with the jests of his fellow drivers and impolite stares on the street. He rarely talked or socialized with human beings, spending all his time among his camels. As the years passed his sounds and mannerisms took on those of the camels he tended. When he growled his missing nose produced a sucking sound not unlike the camels themselves. His looks of arrogance or disdain matched those of any mehari.
That he was miserable without them was evident as he walked around the area picking up pellets and dropping them into the bag. Every so often he would stick his nose, or that part of his face where his nose had been, into the bag and take a deep breath. He seemed to get almost drunk from what to him was the desert’s most intoxicating aroma, short of the animals who’d made it. He even talked to the bag’s contents, much as he did to the animals themselves, snorting and growling and mumbling as he stooped and grabbed. When others tried to help with the gathering he chased them away. The camels were his responsibility.
While the water bags were being filled El Madani had rounded up a hunting party and set off up a wadi searching for game. He took the two Salukis, who had returned to the caravan after Tadjenout. They were marvelous hunting dogs of the Shamba with pedigrees that spanned a thousand years, companions to the great sultans and sheikhs of the north country. It was not their sense of smell but their keen sight that helped them find their quarry. With phenomenal speed and endurance, they would chase their prey until finally it dropped of exhaustion.
But there was no game and El Madani and the Salukis returned empty-handed. The Salukis set about working on the bones of a long-dead camel, snarling when Floop came near. Floop set off on his own. Before long he returned with a lizard in his mouth, its tail, as always, dangling in place of his tongue. Paul thought he walked rather haughtily past the Salukis. Paul greeted the find with such uncharacteristic enthusiasm that before long Floop was back with another, and then another. Each time he trotted up to Paul, Floop would nearly let him have the lizard but then dash off at the last instant. He’d drop it on the ground and paw at it for a while, or crunch around its head a bit if the lizard was too perky and tried to run. Eventually he’d give them up. Floop kept at it until he’d caught six, when he plopped down and refused to part with the last one, preferring to keep it for his own dinner.
To the Shamba, Floop was a hero. Lizards were a much-favored delicacy among them. They quickly built a dung fire and cut the lizards’ throats to the ritual prayers. Then they gutted and skewered them with the branches of the acacia tree, and roasted them over the. Each man took a tiny bite, then passed the skewer along. The Algerians refused them. Paul didn’t mind the taste, remembering the lizard Moussa had cooked him in the cave, but the other Frenchmen declared the delicacy bitter, and settled for the last of the dried meat.
Spirits were high that night in the camp. Nearly everyone had found something to do, some encouragement in the face of the overwhelming challenge that lay before them. The afternoon’s events were the subject of much discussion and laughter.
Paul took a cup of rice to Sandeau, who sat propped against the acacia tree. “Bless you, Lieutenant,” he nodded gratefully. “I didn’t have the energy to get it myself.” Paul was dismayed by the engineer’s appearance. His face was flushed with the first stirrings of fever. His eyelids were red and swollen.
Sandeau was going downhill quickly.