Very early the next morning the intrepid Tartarin and the no less
intrepid prince Gregory, followed by half a dozen negro porters, left
Milianah and descended towards the plain of the Chetiff by a steep
pathway, delightfully shaded by jasmine, carobs and wild olives, between
the hedges of little native gardens where a thousand bubbling springs
trickled melodiously from rock to rock, a veritable Eden.
Carrying as much in the way of arms as the great Tartarin, the prince
was further adorned by a magnificent and colourful kepi, covered with
gold braid and decorated with oak leaves embroidered in silver thread,
which gave his highness the appearance of a Mexican General, or a
Middle-European Station-Master. This fantastic kepi greatly intrigued
Tartarin and he asked humbly for an explanation.
“An indispensable form of headgear for the traveller in Africa.” The
prince replied gravely; and while polishing the peak on his coat-sleeve
he instructed his innocent companion on the important role played by the
kepi in colonial administration, and the deference which its appearance
inspires. This to such an extent that the government has been obliged
to issue kepis to everyone from the canteen worker to the
registrar-general. In fact, according to the prince, to govern the
country there was no necessity for an elaborate regime. All that was
needed was a fine gold-braided kepi glittering on the end of a big
stick.
Thus conversing and philosophising, they went there way. The bare-footed
porters leapt from rock to rock, shouting and chattering. The armaments
rattled in their case. The guns glittered in the sun.. The locals who
passed bowed deeply before the magical kepi.... Up on the ramparts of
Milianah, the chief of the Arab bureau, who was walking with his lady in
the cool of the morning, hearing these unusual noises and seeing between
the branches the flash of sunlight on the weapons, feared a surprise
attack; whereupon he lowered the portcullis, beat the alarm and put the
town in a state of siege.
This was a good start to the expedition. Regrettably, before the end of
the day, the situation deteriorated. One of the negroes was taken with
the most fearful colic, having eaten the plasters in the medicine
chest. Another fell, dead drunk, by the wayside, as a result of swigging
spirits of camphor. A third, in charge of the log-book, deceived by the
gold lettering on the cover, thought he had hold of the treasures of
Mecca and made off with it at top speed.... Clearly some planning was
needed, so the party halted and took council in the shade of an old fig
tree. “In my opinion” Said the prince, trying unsuccessfully to dissolve
a tablet of pemmican in a cooking pot, “In my opinion, after this
evening we should get rid of these negro porters. There is an Arab
market near here and our best plan would be to go there and buy some
bourriquots.” “No!... No!... No bourriquots!” Interrupted Tartarin, who
had become very red at the memory of Noiraud, adding hypocritically,
“How can these little creatures carry all our equipment?”
The prince smiled, “You are mistaken my illustrious friend,” He said,
“The bourriquot may seem to you a poor weak creature, but it has a great
heart... It needs it to support all it has to bear... ask the Arabs. This
is their idea of our administration. On top they say, is the governor
with a big stick which he uses to thump his staff. The staff in turn
thump the soldiers. The soldiers thump the colonist. The colonist thumps
the Arab, the Arab the negro, and the Negro thumps the bourriquot. The
poor little bourriquot having no one to thump, bares its back and puts
up with it. So you can see it is well able to carry all our gear.”
“That’s all very well.” Replied Tartarin, “But I don’t think that
donkeys add much colour to the general appearance of our caravan. Now if
we could have a camel...!”
“Just as you wish.” Said his highness, and they set off for the market.
The market was held some distance away on the bank of the Cheliff.
There were five or six thousand Arabs milling around in the sun, trading
noisily among piles of olives, pots of honey, sacks of spices and heaps
of cigars. There were fires at which whole sheep were roasting, dripping
with butter. There were open air butcheries where almost naked negroes,
their feet paddling in blood and their arms red to the elbow, were
cutting up the carcases of goats hanging from hooks... In one corner, in
a tent repaired in a thousand different colours, was a Moorish official
with a big book and spectacles. Over there is a crowd. There are cries
of rage. It is a roulette game that has been set up on a corn bin and
the tribesmen gathered about it have started fighting with knives.
Elsewhere, there are cheers, laughter and stamping of feet, a
merchant and his mule have fallen into the river and are in danger of
drowning.... There are scorpions, crows, dogs and flies, millions of
flies, but no camels.
Eventually a camel was discovered which some nomads were trying to
dispose of. This was a real desert camel, with little hair, a sad
expression and a hump which through long shortage of fodder hung
flaccidly to one side. Tartarin was so taken with it that he wanted the
two partners to be mounted. This proved to be a mistake.
The camel knelt, the trunks were strapped on, the prince installed
himself on the creature’s neck and Tartarin was hoisted up to the top of
the hump, between two cases, from where he proudly saluted the assembled
market and gave the signal for departure.... Heavens above!.... If only
Tarascon could see him now!
The camel rose, stretched out its long legs and took off. Calamity! The
camel pitched and rolled like a frigate in a rough sea and the chechia
responded to the motion as it had on the Zouave. “Prince... prince”
Murmured Tartarin, ashen-faced, and clutching the scanty hair of the
hump, “Prince... let us get down, I feel... I feel I am going to disgrace
France.” But the camel was in full flight and nothing was going to
stop it. Four thousand Arabs were running behind, bare-footed, waving,
laughing like idiots, six hundred thousand white teeth glistening in
the sun.... The great man of Tarascon had to resign himself to the
inevitable, and France was disgraced.