THE CARAVAN IN THE DESERT
Yes, George vanished from the haunts of men, as completely as if the
Great Roc had dropped him into the Valley of Diamonds and left him
there; and as nobody knows just where the Valley of Diamonds is, George
was very well lost. Still, there was, at the end of a most unique
experience, a recompense far beyond its value. But, of course, George,
being without the gift of clairvoyance, saw nothing save the immediate
and imminent circumstances: a door that banged behind him, portentously;
a sack, a cloak, a burnouse, or whatever it was, flung about his head,
and smelling evilly.
George hit out valiantly, and a merry scuffle ensued. The room was
small; at least, George thought it was, for in the space of one minute
he thumped against the four sides of it. He could see nothing and he
couldn't breathe very well; but in spite of these inconveniences he put
up three rounds that would have made some stir among the middle-weights.
In the phraseology of the fancy, he had a good punch. All the
disappointments of the day seemed to become so many pounds of steam in
his shoulder; and he was aware of a kind of barbaric joy whenever he hit
some one. All the circumspection of years, all of the gentle blood of
his peaceful forebears, gave way to the strain which still lurks in the
blood of civilized humanity, even in the veins of poets and parsons. He
fought with all the tactics of a sailor in a bar-room, not overnicely.
[Illustration]
A table toppled over with a smashing noise. George and his assailants
fell in a heap beside it. Thwack! Bang! George struggled to his feet and
tugged at the stifling envelope. Some one jumped upon his back, Old Man
of the Sea style. A savage elbow-jab disposed of this incubus. And then
the racket began all over again. George never paused mentally to wonder
what all this rumpus was about; time enough to make inquiries after the
scrimmage. Intrepidly, as Hereward the Wake, as Bussy d'Ambois, as
Porthos in the cave of Loch-Maria, George fought. He wasn't a trained
athlete; he hadn't any science; he was simply ordinarily tough and
active and clean-lived; and the injustice of an unprovoked assault added
to physical prowess a full measure of nervous energy. It was
quasi-Homeric: a modern young gentleman in evening dress holding off for
several minutes five sleek, sinewy, unhampered Arabs. But the days of
the gods were no more; and no quick-witted goddess cast a veil across
the eyes of the Arabs. No; George had to shift for himself. Suddenly
there came a general rush from the center of the room into one of the
right-angular corners. The subsequent snarl of legs and arms was not
unlike that seen upon the foot-ball field. George was the man with the
ball. And then to George came merciful darkness. The conjunction, as in
astronomy, of two planets in the same degree of the Zodiac--meaning
George's head and the stucco-wall--gave the Arabs complete mastery of
the field of battle.
From the opposite side of the room came the voice of the referee:
"Curses of Allah upon these white dogs! How they fight!" And Mahomed
peered down into the corner.
One by one the Arabs got up, each examining his honorable wounds. George
alone remained unmoved, quiet and disinterested, under the folds of the
tattered burnouse.
"Is he dead?" demanded Mahomed.
"No, my father. His head hit the wall."
"Hasten, then. Bind his feet and hands and cover his eyes and mouth. We
have but little time."
There was a long way yet to go, and Mahomed was too wise and cautious to
congratulate himself at this early stage. George was thereupon trussed
up like a Christmas fowl ready for the oven. They wrapped him up in the
burnouse and carried him out to the closed carriage in waiting. No one
in the street seemed curious. No one in the English-Bar deemed it
necessary to be. Whatever happened in this resort had long been written
in the book of fate. Had a white man approached to inquire what was
going on, Mahomed would have gravely whispered that it was a case of
plague they were hurrying away to prevent interference by the English
authorities.
Once George was snug inside the carriage, it was driven off at a run
toward the tombs of the caliphs. As the roads were not the levelest, the
vehicle went most of the way upon two wheels. Mahomed sat beside his
victim, watchful and attentive. His intention was to take him no farther
than the outskirts of the city, force him to send back to the hotel a
duly credited messenger for the rug, after which he would turn George
adrift, with the reasonable assurance that the young man would find some
one to guide him back to the hotel. After a while he observed that
George had recovered and was grimly fighting the imprisoning ropes.
"You will need your strength," interposed Mahomed gently. "If I take the
cloth from your mouth, will you promise not to cry out?" There was an
affirmative nod, and Mahomed untied the bandage. "Listen. I mean you no
harm. If you will send to the hotel for the Holy Yhiordes, you will be
liberated the moment it is put into my hands."
"Go to the deuce!" snapped George, still dizzy. The fighting mood
hadn't evaporated, by any means. "You know where it is better than I."
So this was Mahomed?
"Fool!" cried the other, shaking George roughly.
"Easy there! I had the rug, but it was stolen this afternoon." He was
very weak and tired. "And if I had it, I shouldn't give it to you," with
renewed truculence; "and you may put that in your water-pipe and smoke
it."
Mahomed, no longer pacific, struck George violently upon the mouth. He,
on his part, was unknightly enough to attempt to sink his teeth in the
brutal hand. Queer fancies flit through a man's head in times like this;
for the ineffectuality of his bite reminded him of Hallowe'ens and the
tubs with the bobbing apples. One thing was certain: he would kill this
pagan the very first opportunity. Rather a startling metamorphosis in
the character of a man whose life had been passed in the peacefulest
environments. And to kill him without the least compunction, too. To
strike a man who couldn't help himself!
"Hey there!" he yelled. "Help for a white man!" After such treatment he
considered it anything but dishonorable to break his parole. And where
was Ryanne? "Help!"
Mahomed swung his arm round George's neck, and the third cry began with
a gurgle and ended with a sigh. Deftly, the Arab rebandaged the
prisoner's mouth. So be it. He had had his chance for freedom; now he
should drink to the bottom of the bitter cup, along with the others. He
had had no real enmity against George; he was simply one of the pawns in
the game he was playing. But now he saw that there was danger in
liberating him. The other! Mahomed caressed his wiry beard. To subject
him to the utmost mental agony; to break him physically, too; to pay him
back pound for pence; to bruise, to hurt, to rack him, that was all
Mahomed desired.
George made no further effort to free himself, nor apparently to bestir
himself about the future. Somewhere in the fight, presumably as he fell
against the table, he had received a crushing blow in the small ribs;
and when Mahomed threw him back, he fainted for the second time in his
life. He reclined limply in the corner of the carriage, the bosom of his
shirt bulging open; for the thrifty Arabs had purloined the
pearl-studs, the gold collar-buttons, and the sapphire cuff-links. And
consciousness returned only when they lifted him out and dropped him
inconsiderately into the thick dust of the road. He stirred again at his
bonds, but presently lay still. The pain in his side hurt keenly, and he
wasn't sure that the rib was whole. What time had passed since his
entrance to the English-Bar was beyond his reckoning, but he knew that
it was yet in the dark of night, as no light whatever penetrated the
cloth over his eyes. That he was somewhere outside the city he was
assured by the tang of the winter wind. He heard low voices--Arabic; and
while he possessed a smattering of the tongue, his head ached too
sharply for him to sense a word. Later, a camel coughed. Camels? And
where were they taking him upon a camel? Bagdad? Impossible: there were
too many white men following the known camel-ways. He groaned a little,
but the sound did not reach the ears of his captors. To ride a camel
under ordinary conditions was a painful affair; but to straddle the
ungainly brute, dressed as he was, in a swallow-tail and paper-thin
pumps, did not promote any pleasurable thoughts. They would in all
truth kill him before they got through. Hang the rug! And doubly hang
the man who had sold it to him!
His whilom friend, conscience, came back and gibbered at him. Once she
had said: "Don't do it!" and now she was saying quite humanly: "I told
you so!" Hadn't she warned him? Hadn't she swung her red lantern under
his very nose? Well, she hoped he was satisfied. His reply to this brief
jeremiad was that if ever he got his hands upon the rug again, he would
hang on till the crack of doom, and conscience herself could go hang.
Mere perverseness, probably. And where was it, since he was now certain
that Mahomed had it not? It was Ryanne; Ryanne, smooth and plausible of
tongue. Not being satisfied with a thousand pounds, he had stolen it
again to mulct some other simple, trustful person. George, usually so
unsuspicious, was now quite willing to believe anything of anybody.
He felt himself being lifted to his feet. The rope round his ankles was
thrown off. His feet stung under the renewed flow of blood. He waited
for them to liberate his hands, but the galling rope was not disturbed.
It was evident that the natives still entertained some respect for his
fighting ability. Next, they boosted him, flung a leg here and a leg
there; then came a lurch forward, a lurch backward, the recurrence of
the pain in his side, and he knew that he was upon the back of a camel,
desert-bound. There were stirrups, and as life began to spread vigor
once more through his legs, he found the steel. The straps were too
short, and in time the upper turn of the steel chafed his insteps. He
eased himself by riding sidewise, the proper way to ride a camel, but
with constant straining to keep his balance without the use of his
hands. Fortunately, they were not traveling very fast, otherwise, what
with the stabbing pains in his side, produced by the unvarying dog-trot,
he must have fallen. He was miserable, yet defiant; tears of anger and
pain filled his eyes and burned down his cheeks in spite of the cloth.
And he, poor fool, had always been longing for an adventure, a taste of
life outside the peaceful harbor wherein he had sailed his cat-boat!
Well, here he was, in the deep-sea water; and he read himself so truly
that he knew the adventure he had longed for had been the cut-and-dried
affairs of story-tellers, in which only the villains were seriously
discommoded, and everything ended happily. A dashing hero he was, to be
sure! Why hadn't he changed his clothes? Was there ever such an ass?
Ryanne had told him that there was likely to be sport; and yet he had
left the hotel as one dressed for the opera. Ass! And to-morrow the
_Ludwig_ would sail without him.
The wind blew cold against his chest, and the fact that he could neither
see, nor use his tongue to moisten his bruised lips, added to the
discomforts. Back and forth he swayed and rocked. The pain in his side
was gradually minimized by the torture bearing upon his ankles, his
knees, across his shoulders. Finally, when in dull despair he was about
to give up and slide off, indifferent whether the camels following
trampled him or not, a halt was called. It steadied him. Some one
reached up and untied the thong that strangled the life in his hands.
Forward again. This was a trifle better. He could now ease himself with
his hands. No one interfered with him when he tore off the bandages over
his eyes and mouth. The camels were now urged to a swifter pace.
Egyptian night, well called, he thought. He could discern nothing but
phantom-like grey silhouettes that bobbed up and down after the fashion
of corks upon water. Before him and behind him; how many camels made up
the caravan he could not tell. He could hear the faint slip-slip as the
beasts shuffled forward in the fine and heavy sand. They were well out
into the desert, but what desert was as yet a mystery. He had forgotten
to keep the points of the compass in his mind. And to pick out his
bearings by any particular star was to him no more simple than
translating Chinese.
Far, far away behind he saw a luminous pallor in the sky, the reflected
lights of Cairo. And only a few hours ago he had complained to the
head-waiter because of the bits of cork floating in his glass of wine.
Ah, for the dregs of that bottle now; warmth, revival, new courage!...
Curse the luck! There went one of his pumps. He called out. The man
riding in front and leading George's camel merely gave a yank at the
rope. The camel responded with a cough and a quickened gait.
Presently George became aware of a singular fact: that he could see out
of one eye better than the other; and that the semi-useless orb shot
out little stars with every beat of his heart. One of his ears, too,
began to throb and burn. He felt of it. It was less like an ear than a
mushroom. It had been a rattling good mix-up, anyhow; and he accepted
the knowledge rather proudly that the George Percival Algernon, who but
lately had entered the English-Bar sprucely and had made his exit in a
kind of negligible attire, had left behind one character and brought
away another. Never again was he going to be afraid of anything; never
again was he going to be shy: the tame tiger, as it were, had had his
first taste of blood.
Dawn, dawn; if only the horizon would brighten up a little so that he
could get his bearings. By now they were at least fifteen or twenty
miles from Cairo; but in what direction?
Hour after hour went by; over this huge grey roll of sand, down into
that cup-like valley; soundless save when the camels protested or his
stirrup clinked against a buckle; all with the somber aspect of a scene
from Dante. Several black spots, moving in circles far above, once
attracted George; and he knew them to be kites, which will follow a
caravan into the desert even as a gull will follow a ship out to sea.
Later, a torpid indifference took possession of him, and the sense of
pain grew less under the encroaching numbness.
And when at last the splendor of the dawn upon the desert flashed like a
sword-blade along the sky in the east, grew and widened, George
comprehended one thing clearly, that they were in the Arabian desert,
out of the main traveled paths, in the middle of nowhere.
His sense of beauty did not respond to the marvel of the transformation.
The dark grey of the sand-hills that became violet at their bases, to
fade away upward into little pinnacles of shimmering gold; the drab,
formless, scattered boulders, now assuming clear-cut shapes, transfused
with ruby and sapphire glowing; the sun itself that presently lifted its
rosal warming circle above the stepping-off place--George saw but noted
not. The physical picture was overshadowed by the one he drew in his
mind: the good ship _Ludwig_, boring her way out into the sea.
The sun was free from the desert's rim when the leading camel was
halted. A confusion ensued; the camels following stupidly into one
another, in a kind of panic. Out of the silence came a babble of
voices, a grunting, a clatter of pack-baskets and saddle-bags. George,
as his camel kneeled, slid off involuntarily and tumbled against a small
hillock, and lay there, without any distinct sense of what was going on
round him. The sand, fine and mutable, formed a couch comfortingly under
his aching body; and he fell asleep, exhausted. Already the impalpable
dust, which had risen and followed the caravan all through the night,
had powdered his clothes, and his face was stained and streaked. His
head lay in the sand, his soft Fedora crushed under his shoulders. What
with the bruises visible, the rents in his coat, the open shirt, soiled,
crumpled, collarless, he invited pity; only none came from the busy
Arabs. As he slept, a frown gathered upon his face and remained there.
When he came back from his troubled dreams, a bowl of rice, thinned by
hot water, was given him. He cleaned the bowl, not because he was
hungry, but because he knew that somewhere along this journey he would
need strength; and the recurring fury against his duress caused him to
fling the empty bowl at the head of the camel-boy who had brought it.
The boy ducked, laughing. George lay down again. Let them cut his throat
if they wanted to; it was all the same to him. Again he slept, and when
he was roughly and forcibly awakened, he sat up with a snarl and looked
about.
His head was clear now, and he began to take notes. He counted ten,
eleven, twelve camels; a caravan in truth, prepared for a long and
continuous journey. There were three pack-camels, laden with wood,
tents, and such cooking utensils as the frugal Arab had need of.
Certainly Mahomed was a rich man, whether he owned the camels or hired
them for the occasion. Upon one of the beasts they were putting up a
_mahmal_, a canopy used to protect women from the sun while riding. One
Arab, taller, more robust than the others, moved hither and thither
authoritatively. Wound about his _tarboosh_ or fez was a bright green
_cufia_, signifying that the wearer had made the pilgrimage to Holy
Mecca. This individual George assumed to be Mahomed himself. And he
recognized him as the beggar over whom he had stumbled two nights gone.
Pity he hadn't known, and pitched him into the Nile when he had had the
chance.
Mahomed completed his directions, and walked leisurely toward George,
but his attention was not directed toward him. A short distance away, at
George's left, was a man, stretched out as if in slumber. Over his inert
figure Mahomed watched. He drew back his foot and kicked the sleeping
man soundly, smiling amiably the while; a kick which, had Mahomed's foot
been cased in western leather, must have stove in the sleeper's ribs.
Strange, the victim did not stir. Mahomed shrugged, and returned to the
business of breaking camp.
George was keenly interested in this man who could accept such a kick
apparently without feeling or resentment. He stood up for a better view.
One glance was sufficient. It was Ryanne, the erstwhile affable Ryanne
of the reversible cuffs: his feet and hands still in bondage, his
clothes torn, his face battered and bruised like a sailor's of a Sunday
morning on shore-leave. The sight of Ryanne brightened him considerably.
Although he was singularly free from the spirit of malevolence, he was,
nevertheless, human enough to subscribe to that unwritten and much
denied creed that the misery of one man reconciles another to his. And
here was company such as misery loved; here was a man worse off than
himself, whose prospects were a thousand times blacker. Poor devil! And
here he was, captive of the man he had wronged and beaten and robbed. As
seen through George's eyes, Ryanne's outlook was not a pleasant thing to
contemplate. But oh! the fight this one must have been! If it had taken
five natives to overcome him, how many had it taken to beat Ryanne into
such a shocking condition? He was genuinely sorry for Ryanne, but in his
soul he was glad to see him. One white man could accomplish nothing in
the face of these odds; but two white men, that was a different matter.
Ryanne, once he got his legs, strong, courageous, resourceful, Ryanne
would get them both out of it somehow.... And if Ryanne hadn't the rug,
who the dickens had?
The jumble of questions that rose in his mind, seeking answers to the
riddle of the Yhiordes rug, subsided even as they rose. The bundle to
the far side of Ryanne stirred. He had, in his general survey of the
scene, barely set a glance upon it, believing it to be a conglomeration
of saddle-bags (made of wool and cotton) and blankets. It stirred
again. George studied it with a peculiar sense of detachment. A woman; a
woman in what had but recently been a smart Parisian tailor-made
street-dress. The woman, rubbing her eyes, bore herself up painfully to
a sitting posture. She was white. All the blows of the night past were
as nothing in comparison with this invisible one which seemed to strike
at the very source of life.
Fortune Chedsoye!