Again I found myself alone in the vast, sun-baked wilderness, where all
is silent, and the pulse of life stands still.
Twenty-eight hours over one of the most execrable railways in the world
had taken me back to Biskra, where I remained a day, writing letters
home to England, and otherwise making preparations for a lengthened
absence from civilisation. Then, mounted on Zoraida's fleet horse, I
set forth for Tuggurt.
Though the sun's rays were scarcely as powerful as when I had travelled
over the same ground three months before, yet the inconveniences and
perils of the Desert were legion. In order that the Arabs I met should
not deem me worth robbing, I cultivated a ragged appearance; my gandoura
was of the coarsest quality worn by the Kabyles, my haick was soiled and
torn, and my burnouse old and darned. I had purchased the clothing
second-hand in the market-place at Biskra, and now wore a most
woe-begone aspect, my only possession of value perceptible being a new
magazine-rifle of British pattern. Yet stored away in my saddle-bags I
had food, a fair sum of money, a more presentable burnouse, and, what
was more precious than all, there reposed in its rotting, worm-eaten
leather case that mysterious object, the Crescent of Glorious Wonders.
Zoraida's letter to the _imam_, however, I carried in my wallet in the
pocket on the breast of my gandoura.
Terribly wearying and monotonous that journey proved. Only those who
have experienced the appalling silence and gigantic immensity of the
Great Sahara can have any idea of the utter loneliness experienced by a
man journeying without companions. In that dreary waste one is
completely isolated from the world amid the most desolate and
inhospitable surroundings, with the whitening bones of man and beast
lying here and there, ever reminding him with gruesome vividness of the
uncertainty of his own existence. Knowing, however, that I should be
unlikely to fall in with a caravan travelling south until I reached El
Biodh, I pushed onward, and after five days reached Tuggurt, where I was
the welcome guest of Captain Carmier, the only European there, his
Parisian lieutenant having gone into the Sidi Rachid Oasis in charge of
some native recruits.
As the captain and I sat together smoking and sipping our absinthe under
the cool arcade with its horse-shoe arches that runs across the now
deserted harem-garden of the Kasbah, I retailed to him the latest news I
had picked up in Algiers.
"We know nothing here in this uncivilised oven," the officer said,
laughing, and at the same time flicking some dust from off his braided
coat-sleeve. "The Paris papers are always a fortnight to three weeks
old, and, there being no postal service, I have to send to Biskra for
them."
"But you have very comfortable quarters here," I said.
"Comfortable! Oh yes," he replied; "but the life is abominably
monotonous. I would rather be in command of an advanced post down in
the south. There one leads a wild, free life and has plenty of
enjoyment. Take Deschanel's squadron of Spahis as an instance. You
have already had some experience with them, so I need not describe the
rollicking life they lead, scouring the plains in search of that daring
old pirate, Hadj Absalam."
"Have you heard anything of the old chieftain lately?" I asked eagerly.
"No. Since the sharp brush with Deschanel's detachment he seems to have
mysteriously disappeared. After the defeat of his band we did our best
to capture him, feeling that with his power broken he would fall an easy
prey. I at once organised detachments of Spahis, Chasseurs, and Turcos,
who for nearly a month patrolled the Desert, made inquiries of all the
neighbouring tribes, and did their utmost to discover the direction in
which the fugitive had gone. But, as usual, all was in vain."
"Then he has again escaped you?"
Carmier nodded, blowing a cloud of smoke upward from his lips. "He
seems to move from one place to another imperceptibly, for when he flies
he leaves not a clue by which he can be traced. Only last week the
Sheikh of the Ourlana, who had just returned from Algiers, told me
positively that he saw him, dressed as a Jew merchant, enjoying himself
at one of the cafes on the Boulevard de la Republique. That, of course,
is _un conte en l'air_. The old rascal may be daring, but he would
never risk arrest by going to Algiers."
I remained silent. Was it not most likely that while Zoraida sojourned
beside the sea, the Pirate of the Desert would be there also? I did
not, however, tell him of my enchantress, but agreed with him that such
an assertion was incredible. When presently my friend had invited me to
remain with him a couple of days, and I had accepted, he suddenly asked
me--
"Where are you going when you leave here?"
"To Agadez."
"To Agadez?" he echoed in concern. "You are not going alone? It is not
safe. Surely the mere love of adventure has not induced you to set out
on such a perilous ride?"
"I am fulfilling an urgent mission," I answered vaguely.
"_Bien_! and one fraught with more dangers than you imagine. What
possible object can you have in risking your life in journeying to the
City of the Sorcerers, which, if all reports are true, is extremely
unsafe for Christians on account of the fanatical character of the
inhabitants?"
"The object of my journey is a secret," I said. "I have promised to
attempt it, and must accomplish it at all hazards."
"And the person you have promised is a woman--eh?" he hazarded,
laughing.
"Who told you?" I asked, starting in surprise.
"Oh, I merely guessed," he answered. "But, speaking candidly, I would
urge you most strongly to abandon the idea."
"I cannot," I said. "All my happiness--my whole future depends upon
whether I accomplish the journey successfully. Besides, I have not
hesitated before to cross the Desert, why should I now?"
"Because many of the regions through which you must pass to get to
Assiou to join the route to Agadez are peopled by tribes intensely
hostile. Their prejudice against Europeans is even greater than in
Morocco, therefore it will require considerable courage to face such
insurmountable barriers."
"It is not a question of courage," I said; "it's a matter of duty."
Scarcely had these words fallen from my lips when the quick clatter of
horse's hoofs sounded in the outer courtyard, and a few minutes later a
Spahi orderly came towards us, saluting his officer, saying--
"An Arab has arrived in haste from Es-Safla bearing important news."
"Bring him in," Cannier replied.
In a few moments a tall, thin, aquiline-featured Bedouin, dirty, stained
by long travel, and wearing a very ragged burnouse, stalked in, and,
wishing us peace, handed the captain a letter, which he tore open and
immediately read.
"_Dieu_!" he gasped, starting up. "A reverse! The Ennitra, with the
Arabs of the Ouled Ba' Hammou, have risen, and, attacking the Spahis and
Chasseurs near Ain Souf, massacred the whole of them! As far as is
known, not a single man has survived, Paul Deschanel himself succumbing
to his wounds a few hours after writing this report, which has been
forwarded to me by the Sheikh of the Kel-Ahamellen, our friends. The
slaughter must have been awful, for, according to the Sheikh's letter,
the enemy treated the wounded and prisoners with the most fiendish
barbarity."
"Horrible!" I said. "Poor Deschanel! He was an excellent friend to
me."
"He was good to everybody; one of the best soldiers serving under the
Tricolour, poor fellow." Then, turning to the Arab, who was
unconcernedly rolling a cigarette, he thanked him for delivering his
Sheikh's message, and told the orderly to look after him. Again and
again Carmier eagerly perused the report, penned in a shaky, uncertain
hand by the dead officer, and, much affected, he read me extracts from
the black record of treachery and brutal butchery, a record which spoke
in the highest terms of the fearlessness of his men and the cool bravery
they displayed, even though in face of the overwhelming hordes death was
a foregone conclusion from the outset of the fight. The massacre had
taken place at the well of Dhaya, where the Spahis had halted on their
way to In Salah, and as they had been surrounded at night and cut up, it
was evident that my friend Octave Uzanne, the man who had so nobly
sacrificed everything in order that the woman he loved should live
happily with her husband, had, alas! fallen.
Indeed, I was filled with a grief no less poignant than that experienced
by Carmier, when I remembered that those valiant comrades with whom I
had fought side by side when we defeated Hadj Absalam's piratical
cut-throats in the Meskam had now been treacherously attacked and
ruthlessly butchered. The captain, however, gave himself little time
for reflection over the sad incident. Calling for writing materials, he
sat down and penned an explanatory note to the General of Division, who
happened to be at Biskra making his inspection. He recommended that a
punitive expedition should be immediately dispatched into the hostile
district, and stated, that if the War Department in Paris sanctioned it,
he himself could furnish half the men.
In an hour, a smart Spahi, with his rifle slung at his back over his
scarlet burnouse, mounted his horse under the great arched gate of the
Kasbah, and into his hands the captain gave the dispatch, ordering him
to ride with all speed to Biskra, where, by travelling incessantly and
changing his horse at five Arab villages he named, he could arrive
within three days.
The man, placing the letter in his capacious breast pocket, saluted,
and, setting spurs in his horse, sped rapidly away; after which Carmier,
pleading that he had some further dispatches to attend to, left me to
wander at will through the great courts of the ancient fortress.
Presently I came across the Arab who had brought the sad news from his
Sheikh, and who, after his meal was now squatting under a shady arcade
lazily smoking. Leaning against one of the twisted columns, I
questioned him further upon the reverse, but he apparently knew very few
of the actual facts. He told me that he intended to return to In Salah
on the following day, and it at once occurred to me that we might be
travelling companions as far as El Biodh. Knowing that this man, whose
name I learnt was Gajere, was trustworthy, otherwise he would not have
been sent by the friendly Sheikh, I suggested that we should perform the
journey together, an arrangement which met with his heartiest approval.
When the _mueddin_ called from the tall minaret of the great white
mosque at sundown, I watched the man of the Kel-Ahamellen wash his feet
and hands in the courtyard and enter to recite his Fatiha, and to ask
Allah to give us peace upon our journey over the great barren plain
where death is ever-present.
Strangely enough, however, I chanced to be lounging with the captain
near the gate of the Kasbah, when, an hour later, the devout Moslems
came trooping out, and as I looked across to the narrow doorway, I saw
Gajere emerge, accompanied by an unkempt-looking Arab whose face struck
me as strangely familiar. The pair stood for a few moments hand in
hand, engaged in excited conversation, until suddenly they detected my
presence. Then, exchanging quick, significant looks and uttering
_slaamas_, Gajere and his friend parted, the latter striding quickly
away in an opposite direction, and, turning a corner, was soon lost to
view. Notwithstanding the dim twilight, however, I had made an
astounding discovery, for I recognised the man who had fled so quickly
as the Arab who had sat next to me in the little _kahoua_ in Algiers--
the man who had stolen the cut-off hand!
Had he followed me? If so, with what purpose? I felt convinced that
his presence and his friendship with the man from the Desert boded evil,
and throughout that night grimly-apprehensive thoughts caused me the
most intense anxiety.
By no mere coincidence was it that we should thus meet. The unkempt,
fierce-looking ruffian had some sinister design in dogging my footsteps,
and the nature of this object I was determined at all costs to
ascertain. Therefore, I did not hesitate to adhere to previous
arrangements, and, regardless of the consequences, I set out with
Gajere.