Mohammed El Aïd Ben Ali Tidjani smiled once more, and beckoned to a
negro attendant, who ran with a musical box, one of the gifts of the
faithful.
“This comes from Paris,” he said, with a spreading complacence.
Then there was within the box a sounding click, and there stole forth a
tinkling of Auber’s music to _Masaniello_, “Come o’er the moonlit sea!”
_THE DESERT DRUM_
I
I am not naturally superstitious. The Saharaman is. He has many
strange beliefs. When one is at close quarters with him, sees him day
by day in his home, the great desert, listens to his dramatic tales
of desert lights, visions, sounds, one’s common-sense is apt to be
shaken on its throne. Perhaps it is the influence of the solitude and
the wide spaces, of those far horizons of the Sahara where the blue
deepens along the edge of the world, that turns even a European mind
to an Eastern credulity. Who can tell? The truth is that in the Sahara
one can believe what one cannot believe in London. And sometimes
circumstances—chance if you like to call it so—steps in, and seems to
say, “Your belief is well founded.”
Of all the desert superstitions the one which appealed most to my
imagination was the superstition of the desert drum. The Saharaman
declares that far away from the abodes of men and desert cities, among
the everlasting sand dunes, the sharp beating, or dull, distant rolling
of a drum sometimes breaks upon the ears of travellers voyaging through
the desolation. They look around, they stare across the flats, they
see nothing. But the mysterious music continues. Then, if they be
Sahara-bred, they commend themselves to Allah, for they know that some
terrible disaster is at hand, that one of them at least is doomed to
die.
Often had I heard stories of the catastrophes which were immediately
preceded by the beating of the desert drum. One night in the Sahara I
was a witness to one which I have never been able to forget.
On an evening of spring, accompanied by a young Arab and a negro,
I rode slowly down a low hill of the Sahara, and saw in the sandy
cup at my feet the tiny collection of hovels called Sidi-Massarli.
I had been in the saddle since dawn, riding over desolate tracks in
the heart of the desert. I was hungry, tired, and felt almost like a
man hypnotised. The strong air, the clear sky, the everlasting flats
devoid of vegetation, empty of humanity, the monotonous motion of my
slowly cantering horse—all these things combined to dull my brain and
to throw me into a peculiar condition akin to the condition of a man
in a trance. At Sidi-Massarli I was to pass the night. I drew rein and
looked down on it with lack-lustre eyes.
I saw a small group of palm-trees, guarded by a low wall of baked
brown earth, in which were embedded many white bones of dead camels.
Bleached, grinning heads of camels hung from more than one of the
trees, with strings of red pepper and round stones. Beyond the wall
of this palm garden, at whose foot was a furrow full of stagnant
brownish-yellow water, lay a handful of wretched earthen hovels, with
flat roofs of palmwood and low wooden doors. To be exact, I think there
were five of them. The Bordj, or Travellers’ House, at which I was to
be accommodated for the night, stood alone near a tiny source at the
edge of a large sand dune, and was a small, earth-coloured building
with a pink tiled roof, minute arched windows, and an open stable for
the horses and mules. All round the desert rose in humps of sand,
melting into stony ground where the saltpetre lay like snow on a wintry
world. There were but few signs of life in this place; some stockings
drying on the wall of a ruined Arab café, some kids frisking by a heap
of sacks, a few pigeons circling about a low square watchtower, a
black donkey brooding on a dust heap. There were some signs of death;
carcasses of camels stretched here and there in frantic and fantastic
postures, some bleached and smooth, others red and horribly odorous.
The wind blew round this hospitable township of the Sahara, and the
yellow light of evening began to glow above it. It seemed to me at that
moment the dreariest place in the dreariest dream man had ever had.
Suddenly my horse neighed loudly. Beyond the village, on the opposite
hill, a white Arab charger caracoled, a red cloak gleamed. Another
traveller was coming in to his night’s rest, and he was a Spahi. I
could almost fancy I heard the jingle of his spurs and accoutrements,
the creaking of his tall red boots against his high peaked saddle. As
he rode down towards the Bordj—by this time, I, too, was on my way—I
saw that a long cord hung from his saddle-bow, and that at the end
of this cord was a man, trotting heavily in the heavy sand like a
creature dogged and weary. We came in to Sidi-Massarli simultaneously,
and pulled up at the same moment before the arched door of the Bordj,
from which glided a one-eyed swarthy Arab, staring fixedly at me. This
was the official keeper of the house. In one hand he held the huge
door key, and as I swung myself heavily on the ground I heard him, in
Arabic, asking my Arab attendant, D’oud, who I was and where I hailed
from.
But such attention as I had to bestow on anything just then was given
to the Spahi and his companion. The Spahi was a magnificent man, tall,
lithe, bronze-brown and muscular. He looked about thirty-four, and had
the face of a desert eagle. His piercing black eyes stared me calmly
out of countenance, and he sat on his spirited horse like a statue,
waiting patiently till the guardian of the Bordj was ready to attend to
him. My gaze travelled from him along the cord to the man at its end,
and rested there with pity. He, too, was a fine specimen of humanity, a
giant, nobly built, with a superbly handsome face, something like that
of an undefaced Sphinx. Broad brows sheltered his enormous eyes. His
rather thick lips were parted to allow his panting breath to escape,
and his dark, almost black skin, was covered with sweat. Drops of sweat
coursed down his bare arms and his mighty chest, from which his ragged
burnous was drawn partially away. He was evidently of mixed Arab and
negro parentage. As he stood by the Spahi’s horse, gasping, his face
expressed nothing but physical exhaustion. His eyes were bent on the
sand, and his arms hung down loosely at his sides. While I looked at
him the Spahi suddenly gave a tug at the cord to which he was attached.
He moved in nearer to the horse, glanced up at me, held out his hand,
and said in a low, musical voice, speaking Arabic:
“Give me a cigarette, Sidi.”
I opened my case and gave him one, at the same time diplomatically
handing another to the Spahi. Thus we opened our night’s acquaintance,
an acquaintance which I shall not easily forget.
In the desolation of the Sahara a travelling intimacy is quickly
formed. The one-eyed Arab led our horses to the stable, and while my
two attendants were inside unpacking the tinned food and the wine I
carried with me on a mule, I entered into conversation with the Spahi,
who spoke French fairly well. He told me that he was on the way to El
Arba, a long journey through the desert from Sidi-Massarli, and that
his business was to convey there the man at the end of the cord.
“But what is he? A prisoner?” I asked.
“A murderer, monsieur,” the Spahi replied calmly.
I looked again at the man, who was wiping the sweat from his face with
one huge hand. He smiled and made a gesture of assent.
“Does he understand French?”
“A little.”
“And he committed murder?”
“At Tunis. He was a butcher there. He cut a man’s throat.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, monsieur. Perhaps he was jealous. It is hot in Tunis
in the summer. That was five years ago, and ever since he has been in
prison.”
“And why are you taking him to El Arba?”
“He came from there. He is released, but he is not allowed to live
any more in Tunis. Ah, monsieur, he is mad at going, for he loves a
dancing-girl, Aïchouch, who dances with the Jewesses in the café by
the lake. He wanted even to stay in prison, if only he might remain in
Tunis. He never saw her, but he was in the same town, you understand.
That was something. All the first day he ran behind my horse cursing
me for taking him away. But now the sand has got into his throat. He is
so tired that he can scarcely run. So he does not curse any more.”
The captive giant smiled at me again. Despite his great stature, his
powerful and impressive features, he looked, I thought, very gentle
and submissive. The story of his passion for Aïchouch, his desire to
be near her, even in a prison cell, had appealed to me. I pitied him
sincerely.
“What is his name?” I asked.
“M’hammed Bouaziz. Mine is Said.”
I was weary with riding and wanted to stretch my legs, and see what was
to be seen of Sidi-Massarli ere evening quite closed in, so at this
point I lit a cigar and prepared to stroll off.
“Monsieur is going for a walk?” asked the Spahi, fixing his eyes on my
cigar.
“Yes.”
“I will accompany monsieur.”
“Or monsieur’s cigar-case,” I thought.
“But that poor fellow,” I said, pointing to the murderer. “He is tired
out.”
“That doesn’t matter. He will come with us.”
The Spahi jerked the cord and we set out, the murderer creeping over
the sand behind us like some exhausted animal.
By this time twilight was falling over the Sahara, a grim twilight,
cold and grey. The wind was rising. In the night it blew half a
gale, but at this hour there was only a strong breeze in which minute
sand-grains danced. The murderer’s feet were shod with patched
slippers, and the sound of these slippers shuffling close behind
me made me feel faintly uneasy. The Spahi stared at my cigar so
persistently that I was obliged to offer him one. When I had done so,
and he had loftily accepted it, I half turned towards the murderer. The
Spahi scowled ferociously. I put my cigar-case back into my pocket.
It is unwise to offend the powerful if your sympathy lies with the
powerless.
Sidi-Massarli was soon explored. It contained a Café Maure, into which
I peered. In the coffee niche the embers glowed. One or two ragged
Arabs sat hunched upon the earthen divans playing a game of cards. At
least I should have my coffee after my tinned dinner. I was turning to
go back to the Bordj when the extreme desolation of the desert around,
now fading in the shadows of a moonless night, stirred me to a desire.
Sidi-Massarli was dreary enough. Still it contained habitations, men. I
wished to feel the blank, wild emptiness of this world, so far from the
world of civilisation from which I had come, to feel it with intensity.
I resolved to mount the low hill down which I had seen the Spahi
ride, to descend into the fold of desert beyond it, to pause there a
moment, out of sight of the hamlet, listen to the breeze, look at the
darkening sky, feel the sand-grains stinging my cheeks, shake hands
with the Sahara.
But I wanted to shake hands quite alone. I therefore suggested to the
Spahi that he should remain in the Café Maure and drink a cup of coffee
at my expense.
“And where is monsieur going?”
“Only over that hill for a moment.”
“I will accompany monsieur.”
“But you must be tired. A cup of⸺”
“I will accompany monsieur.”
In Arab fashion he was establishing a claim upon me. On the morrow,
when I was about to depart, he would point out that he had guided me
round Sidi-Massarli, had guarded me in my dangerous expedition beyond
its fascinations, despite his weariness and hunger. I knew how useless
it is to contend with these polite and persistent rascals, so I said no
more.
In a few minutes the Spahi, the murderer and I stood in the fold of the
sand dunes, and Sidi-Massarli was blotted from our sight.