The first light of day was followed almost at once by the first blast
of heat. Then the sun rose, a burning red ball that seemed to roll
across the eastern horizon with steadily increasing speed, as though to
gain momentum for leaping into the sky.
The rein hung slack and Ali dozed in the saddle as Ben Akbar paced
steadily onward. When the bright sun flashed in his eyes, Ali awakened
and halted his mount with, "Ho, my brother! Let us stop."
Ben Akbar halted, knelt when commanded to do so, and Ali dismounted.
As the sun climbed higher and grew hotter, Ali pondered his present
situation, the immediate past and the probable future. In his mind's
eye, he drew a map of the general area and of his approximate position.
At a rough estimate, Mecca was halfway down the east shore of the Red
Sea, a great sweep of water whose most northerly waves break on the
Sinai Peninsula and whose southern extremity mingles with the Gulf of
Aden, a thousand or more miles away. Directly to the east was the land
of the Arabs. Ali's native Syria was northeast, and beyond Syria lay
Turkey.
Since it was manifestly impossible to cross the Red Sea without a
suitable ship, Ali's choice of directions were north, south and east. It
was a difficult choice, for, wherever he went, he would still be in a
land of Moslems. Even if he might somehow contrive to cross the Red Sea,
he must necessarily disembark in Moslem Egypt.
Because he had shed blood in Holy Mecca, he was and forever must be
outcast by all true Moslems. Moreover, with thousands of home-going
pilgrims and each one an indignant bearer of the tale of desecration,
very shortly Ali would be a marked man throughout the Moslem world. Any
Moslem who killed him would be honored, not prosecuted.
Now all that belonged to the dead past. This was the living present, and
Ali wondered curiously why he was unable to regard that present in the
grave light cast by facts as they were. He'd gained in Mecca the coveted
right to call himself Hadji Ali, and, considering the turn of
circumstances that now meant nothing whatever. It made not the slightest
difference what name he carried. But, far from surrendering to despair
or even giving way to anxiety, Ali felt that the _Hadj_ had brought him
a whole new future and that it had never been so hopeful.
He stroked the _dalul's_ neck with affectionately understanding hands.
Ben Akbar made happy little noises with his mouth and the rein trailed
in the desert sand. Ali stooped to pick it up. The rein was not
necessary because he could still guide Ben Akbar by voiced commands,
but, since he was setting out on what would most certainly be a long
journey, he had felt that it was desirable to have proper trappings for
his mount.
As soon as Ali began to plan ahead after his flight from Mecca, he
decided that he must reach the camp of Al Misri, the most accessible
source of camel harness, before the soldiers were able to bring their
news there. He accomplished that by making Ben Akbar kneel when both had
run a safe distance, then mounting and riding at full speed until he was
within a discreet distance of the camp. There--even if he has completed
the _Hadj_, a camel's groom must not be caught riding a _dalul_ reserved
exclusively for the Pasha of Damascus--Ali dismounted and walked the
rest of the way.
Familiar figures about the camp, the pair attracted only indifferent
glances from the sentries. As though he were acting under orders, Ali
went directly to the supply tent to choose a proper saddle and bridle.
The bridle presented no problem, but Ali was able to find a saddle only
after rejecting a dozen of the biggest ones and finally hitting upon the
largest of all. In superb condition, Ben Akbar's sleek hump seemed ready
to burst. None but the biggest saddle would fit.
However, foreseeing probable hardship, and the consequent shrinking of
the _dalul's_ hump, Ali gathered up a sufficient supply of saddle pads.
Finally, he chose a goatskin water bag and, as payment for all, left the
single coin that had remained to him after paying for his _ihram_. It
was not enough, and he knew it, but it was all he had.
Leading Ben Akbar, Ali filled his water bag at the oasis and went on.
The sentries who watched all this but failed to act were lulled partly
by the fact that Ali was a familiar part of the camp and, as far as the
sentries knew, above suspicion. They were further disarmed by the very
audacity of the scheme. Nobody, certainly not a camel's groom, would
walk brazenly into a camp commanded by Al Misri and steal trappings to
equip the Pasha's prized _dalul_, which he also intended to steal!
A safe distance from camp, Ali mounted and rode. He struck inland,
veering away from the route that would be selected by most of the
home-going pilgrims, letting Ben Akbar choose his own moderate pace all
night long. Nobody could follow him in the darkness, anyhow, and it was
wise to spare his mount.
Now, as he stood beside the reclining _dalul_ and the burning sun
pursued its torrid course, Ali considered that which was as inevitable
as the eventual setting of the sun.
It was a foregone conclusion that some tracker had taken the trail as
soon as he was able to see it, and the pursuers would waste no time. Nor
would they ever give up. Who stole a _dalul_ from the Pasha of Damascus
might escape only if he sought and found asylum with one of the Pasha's
powerful enemies. But who desecrated Holy Mecca would never find safety
in any Moslem land. In addition, Ali thought, the officer and all the
men who'd been with him would now make a heretic's punishment a point of
honor, a blood quest from which only death would free them.
Ali still saw hope that could not have been without Ben Akbar. As
individuals, either was assailable. Together, they were invincible.
Counting from the time they'd left Al Misri's camp to the first light of
day, Ali gave meticulous consideration to the pace set by Ben Akbar and
the type of terrain they'd traveled. When finished, he knew within a few
rods either way just how far they had come and within a few minutes,
plus or minus, when pursuers could be expected. Ali turned to Ben Akbar.
"Rest," he crooned, as he removed saddle and bridle. "Rest and forage,
oh Prince among _dalul_. Come to me then, and you shall teach the
Pasha's soldiers the true speed of a _dalul_."
Ben Akbar wandered forth to crop the coarse desert vegetation. Choosing
the doubtful shade offered by a copse of scrub, Ali lay down and drew
his burnous about him. He slept peacefully and soundly, as though he'd
somehow managed to purge his mind of certain grim prospects for the
immediate future and rest alone mattered. A bit more than three hours
later, as Ali had planned when he chose his bed, the blazing sun shone
directly upon him and its glare broke his slumber.
He did not, as had been his habit, lie quietly and without moving until
he determined exactly what lay about him and what, if anything, he
should do about it. Ben Akbar, who always knew long before his master
when anything approached--and always let Ali know--made such precautions
unnecessary. The great _dalul_ was grazing quietly and only a few feet
away.
"To me, my brother," Ali called softly.
Ben Akbar came at once and Ali replaced the saddle and bridle. About to
take a swallow of water, he decided to wait until Ben Akbar could also
have a satisfactory drink or until thirst became unbearable. In the
latter event, they'd share the contents of the water bag.
Ali thought calmly of the journey before him. A novice attempting such a
trip would invite his own death, and even an experienced desert traveler
would find such an undertaking very precarious. However, Ali, who'd
spent most of his life on the caravan routes, thought of it as just one
more journey.
The merciless sun spared nothing. Waves of heat rolled along with
monotonous regularity, as though the heat blanket were a mighty ocean
beset by a steady wind. Ali turned his back to the sun's direct rays and
watched Ben Akbar. He was hot and thirsty, and becoming hotter and
thirstier, but so had he been before and would be again.
The sun was almost exactly where Ali had decided it should be when Ben
Akbar raised his head and fixed his attention on the western horizon. It
was the direction from which they had come, that from which pursuit
should come. Ali turned to face the same way as Ben Akbar.
A few minutes later, they rode over a hillock and Ali saw them. They
were a little group of the Pasha's crack troops, superbly mounted on
magnificent _dalul_ and maintaining tight formation behind a tracker.
Ali reached up to fondle Ben Akbar's neck but kept his eyes on the
riders. They were seven, including the tracker, and Ali knew at once why
there were no more than seven and no fewer.
He was no ordinary outlaw, but a direct affront to all that Moslems held
most dear. He must be brought to justice, and no effort would be spared
to do so. Thus the tracker was the best to be found. The six soldiers
were picked men. Finally, the seven _dalul_ were the very elite of the
almost thirty thousand camels with the _Hadj_. There were no more than
seven pursuers because there was not another _dalul_ to keep pace with
these seven.
Ali did not have to ask himself if the seven _dalul_ were fresh or
weary; their riders would know how to conserve their mounts. Ben Akbar
had had less than four hours' rest.
Standing quietly beside Ben Akbar, Ali told himself that he had wanted
and planned to have the pursuit take form in just this way, and he would
not change now if he could. He himself might have ridden much farther in
the hours that had elapsed since leaving Al Misri's camp, but he'd have
done it at the expense of Ben Akbar. The test had to come, and it was
better to meet it in this fashion.
The soldiers sighted him and urged their mounts from an easy trot to a
swift lope. Ali waited until they were within two hundred and fifty
yards, well beyond effective range of smoothbore muskets, before he
turned to Ben Akbar and said quietly, "Kneel."
Ben Akbar knelt and Ali mounted. At ease in the saddle, he turned to
watch the soldiers sweep nearer. A momentary doubt assailed him as a
close-up inspection of their _dalul_ revealed the full magnificence of
such animals. Ali put the doubt behind him and told Ben Akbar to run.
At home in a camel saddle as he seldom fitted in elsewhere, Ali did not
waste another backward glance as Ben Akbar flew on. He knew what lay
behind him, and that he could expect no mercy whether his back or his
face was toward the pursuers. Wherever it struck, the blade of a sword
would be equally sharp and bite as deeply.
After fifteen minutes, and the blade not felt, Ali knew he'd chosen
wisely when he gave his very life into Ben Akbar's keeping. He still did
not look behind him. _Dalul_ such as the soldiers mounted were not
easily outdistanced, but there was a mighty vein of comfort in that very
thought. Ben Akbar would never again be pursued by swifter _dalul_ or
more skilful riders. If he won this race, he'd win all to come.
An hour and a half afterwards, Ali finally looked around. With less than
a two-hundred-yard lead at the beginning of the race, Ben Akbar had
doubled that distance between himself and the three swiftest pursuers.
The remaining four, in order of their speed, straggled behind the
leaders. Ali slowed Ben Akbar so that his pace exceeded by the scantiest
margin that of the three leaders.
When a cool wind announced the going of the day and the coming of the
night, the nearest of the seven pursuers was a mere dot in the distance.
* * * * *
The bitter autumn wind that snarled in from the Mediterranean had sent a
herd of tough, desert-bred goats to the shelter of some boulders and
made them stand close together for the warmth one found in another.
Riding past on Ben Akbar, Ali gave the shivering herd the barest of
glances and turned his gaze to the horizon. He missed nothing, a highly
practical talent whose development had been markedly accelerated by
necessity.
Behind lay an incredible journey. Eluding the soldiers, Ali rode on into
the very heart of the Arabian desert. Always he sought the lonelier
places, shepherd's or camel herder's camps and the smallest villages. At
first his experiences had conformed strictly to what any solitary
traveler might expect. As the news spread and Ali's ill fame became part
of the talk at even the most isolated campfires, his fortunes changed
accordingly.
He seldom met anything except cold hatred and outright hostility.
Normally it was accompanied by dread, not entirely a disadvantage since,
whatever else they thought, trembling natives who recognized Ali feared
to refuse him food and other necessities. He fought when he could not
avoid fighting, but much preferred to run. Ben Akbar had shown his heels
to more soldiers, tribesmen and just plain bandits than Ali could
remember.
With an almost desperate yearning for anyone at all who'd exchange a
friendly word, eventually Ali turned to his native Syria, where he hoped
to find a friend. He found a hatred more bitterly intense than anything
experienced elsewhere; every Syrian seemed to think that he must bear
part of the shame for a countryman who had defiled the Holy City. Now
Ali was farther north, in the land of the Turks and riding toward the
port of Smyrna.
Rounding a bend that brought him in sight of the Mediterranean, Ali
halted Ben Akbar and stared in amazement.
He was on the shoreside wall of a u-shaped rock ledge that extended into
the sea and formed a natural harbor. Some distance out, a great sailing
ship that flew a foreign flag rode at anchor. Though he could not read
it and had no more than a vague notion that it might be read, Ali could
make out her name. She was the _Supply_.
Halfway between shore and ship, a scow propelled by oarsmen and carrying
a kneeling camel that seemed to be strapped in position, was making
toward the _Supply_. On the shore beneath Ali, a number of other camels
were tethered. One had lain down, and eight Egyptian camel handlers
seemed interested in making it get up again.
With a fine contempt for Egyptians generally, and Egyptian camel
handlers specifically, Ali had decided to his own satisfaction that
these last fell back on forceful crudity simply because they were too
stupid to master the right ways of handling camels. Ali's curiosity
mounted because, contrary to their usual procedure, these handlers were
gently trying to make the camel get up.
Then the scow reached the ship, the men who had been on the scow
disappeared on the _Supply_ and took the camel with them, whereupon the
Egyptian handlers abruptly changed tactics. Kicking together a pile of
rubble, someone started a fire. A pail appeared from somewhere and was
put over the fire. A raging Ali leaped from Ben Akbar and toward the
group.
He had not intended to interfere. If the Egyptians were stupid enough to
abuse their own camel, then let them be deprived of the beast that much
sooner. Ali would not have interfered if the Egyptian handlers had done
almost anything except what they were obviously about to do--make the
camel get up by pouring boiling pitch over its tail. Hearing Ali, the
eight turned as one and greeted him with hostile stares.
"Swine!" Ali snarled. "Offspring of diseased fleas! Eaters of camel
dung!"
He emphasized his insults with a blow to the midriff that sent the
nearest Egyptian spinning, and immediately the seven were upon him. Ali
delivered a smart kick to the shin that left one hopping about on one
foot and howling with pain, landed a clenched fist squarely on the jaw
of another, and then a sledge hammer collided with his own head.
Night came suddenly. Then light shone through the dark curtain, and Ali
looked up at two men who stood before him. One, a native interpreter,
was foppish in garment and manner. The other, arrayed in clothing such
as Ali had never seen, commanded instant respect. Tall, slim, strong and
young, he had the same air of strength and authority that marked Al
Misri. He spoke in a strange tongue to the interpreter, who addressed
Ali.
"Lieutenant Porter demands to know why you attacked his men."
Ali gestured toward the kneeling camel. "They would have made it rise by
pouring boiling pitch on its tail."
The interpreter conveyed this information to Lieutenant Porter, who
whirled at once on the Egyptians.
"I've told all of you that I will tolerate no cruelty," he began.
Not understanding a word, nevertheless Ali listened with mingled awe and
admiration as Lieutenant Porter continued to speak. His words, Ali
thought happily, were a lion's roar, and it was better to be whipped
than to endure them because a whip could not remove skin nearly as well.
The eight Egyptians, like eight beaten dogs, slunk away. Lieutenant
Porter addressed the interpreter, who conveyed the message to Ali.
"Can you make the camel rise?"
Ali got to his feet, smoothed his burnous and went to the stubborn
camel. He took hold of the tether rope while he stooped to whisper in
its ear, "Rise, my little one. Rise, my beauty. The trail is long and
the day is short."
The camel rose and began to lick Ali's hand. Ali addressed the
interpreter. "Where are these camels going?"
"To America," the interpreter assured him.
"But--" A bewildered Ali looked from the stately ship to the tethered
camels. "Is a land wealthy enough to have such a ship, so poor as to
have no camels?"
Treating this question with haughty disdain, the interpreter relayed
another message. "Lieutenant Porter wishes to know if you will go to
America with the camels?"