Sands of Destiny (9 page)

“Ferengi guns.” Corville reached for his rifle and passed it over to the Sheik. “I am not the beggar I seem, Mighty One. If it will please you to accept a small token of my regard, a mere nothing, but something which, at the most may serve to amuse you for an idle hour, take it with the blessings of Allah that your aim be always true.”

“It is a fine weapon,” murmured the Sheik and Corville knew that he was envious of the rifle. “And yet I cannot take a man’s weapons and leave him naked to his foes. Here.” He reached behind him and produced a Jezail. It was, in itself, a work of art with its delicate stock. Flintlock action and chased barrel. The stock was heavily ornamented with precious metal and the foresight was a small but valuable pearl. Corville took it, running his hands over it, knowing that, in mere intrinsic worth, the Jezail was worth ten Lebels.

He passed it to Smith, took the sergeant’s rifle, and handed it to the Sheik. Silently he spilled a double handful of cartridges onto the rug on which they sat, added more from the sergeant’s bandolier, and pushed the gleaming pile of brass and lead to the centre of the carpet.

The Sheik nodded, took a powder horn and bag of bullets from a peg, and passed them to Corville. The trade made both men sat back and smiled. The Sheik clapped his hands and ordered coffee and, over the tiny cups of strong brew discussed future plans.

Corville knew, that by his gift of the two modern rifles, he had, in effect paid for both the hospitality and future aid. To have put such a transaction into words would have insulted the Sheik beyond redemption but, the token exchange of gifts, had done more than offers of gold, haggling, or threats could ever have done.

“It will be at least a moon before we can return to Sidi Baba,” said the Sheik conversationally. “My men will need time to break the horses. From the town we shall go to Sidi bel Abbes as I have said. Say ten days at the town, perhaps less, but not under five.” He sipped at his scented coffee. “You may stay with me until we reach Sidi Baba.”

“You are too kind,” murmured Corville. “As I said I am not wholly a beggar and, if you are ever in Marojia, my house is yours to do with as you please.” He hesitated.

“I fear to ask what is in my heart for fear that you would think that I ask too much, but, should things work out so and Allah direct my footsteps or the footsteps of my servant towards the city of the Ferengi, would it be possible to crave your protection to Sidi bel Abbes?”

“If Allah so wills then all is possible,” said the Sheik enigmatically and clapped his hands for more coffee.

Later, after the final cup of coffee, when they were alone for a brief space, Corville had time for a few words with the sergeant.

“We’re in luck, Smith, but this will delay us and the news. It will be at least a month before we reach Sidi Baba and much could happen in that time. Anyway, should we fail to provide our own transport, I think that the Sheik will permit us to travel with him.” Corville yawned, suddenly conscious of a terrible fatigue. “I must rest. Allah be with you.”

“Allah give you strength,” said Smith with a trace of humour and, when Corville entered the tent to which he was led, he knew why.

A startled exclamation came from the darkness as he entered and, in the thin moonlight filtering through the tent flap, he saw the pale face of Clarice staring at him with Miss Carson standing in a defensive attitude nearby. Quickly he dropped the flap and, fumbling in the darkness, moved close to the two women.

“Silence,” he rasped as Clarice made as if to speak. “It is I, Corville.”

“But?”

“Silence,” He waited a moment until the guard had moved away. “Listen. You are supposed to be my wives and, to these Arabs, that is just what you are. I shall have to sleep in the same tent as you do.” He grinned at the young girl’s indrawn breath. “Don’t worry. Miss Carson can chaperone you, but there is nothing else I can do. One other thing. You almost spoke as I entered the tent. That must not happen again.”

Rapidly he told the two women what had transpired between him and the Sheik.

“So we are going to be together for at least a month. It will be a boring time for the pair of you because you will have to stay confined all the time. Luckily an Arab’s wife is his chattel and, if I so order, no one will be surprised at Smith standing guard over you to keep outsiders away. In effect you represent my Harem, and, even as a guest, I have the right to guard you.”

“Don’t bother to explain,” said Clarice gently. “I understand.”

“Good. Remember now, on no account speak. One word from you could warn the Sheik that we aren’t what we seem and, once that happens, we are as good as dead.” He hesitated. “I’m sorry about this, it’s not going to be a pleasant time for either of you, but it was the best I could manage.”

“Forget it,” Clarice whispered. “Why not get some sleep now? You must be all in.”

Corville smiled at her in the dark. squeezed the slender fingers he found thrust into his own and, lying on a bale of soft carpets, soon fell into a dreamless sleep,

Clarice stared towards him for a long time before she too closed her eyes in slumber and when she did, there was a smile on her full, red lips.

SIDI BABA

SIDI Baba was a typical native town with its rows of low, blank-walled mud houses, its noisy bazaars, the markets with steaming pots of cous-cous and sickly sweets.

The Sheik Ali ben Sirdir owned a house on the outskirts next to a clump of tall palms and, over a month after the fall of Fort Onassis, Corville and his party arrived at Sidi Baba. It had been a month in which impatience had clawed at him like a living thing, for, after they had joined the group of horse breakers, he had listened to their tales and knew now that the threat of the Great Jehad was no idle worry. The young men had been full of it and, as they spoke around the campfires. Corville had seen the gleam in their eyes as they spoke of the collapse of Fort Onassis. Fort Deauville, Fort Sheimen, and of the surprise attack and battle which had wiped out two columns of Spahis, the famous camel corps of the Legion.

It had been a time too, of growing intimacy with the young American girl and, despite all the worry of duty and the grim knowledge that, unless the news could be carried to Sidi bel Abbes, the lives of no unbeliever were safe, yet the young officer found himself thinking more and more of the sweet face and little figure of his supposed ‘wife’. Miss Carson too had proved to be full of courage and Dick, acting the part of a man touched with insanity, had slowly learned enough Arabic to be able to follow a simple conversation.

The old Sheik offered Corville the sanctity of his house during his stay at Sidi Baba and Corville knew that the women would be safer with the old man than wandering the streets with him and the sergeant. Thanking the Sheik, Corville arranged to leave the women and Dick under his protection while he and Smith went out into the streets to learn what they could and to see if it were possible to hire horses or camels for the journey.

“There’s something in the air,” said Smith as they walked through the streets. “Notice the unusually large number of mounted men and see? One of the Cleuh tribe, they never come this far away from their own hills normally.”

A water seller, bowed like a beast of burden beneath the swollen skin of water on his back, passed them, clinking his brass cups and calling his wares. Corviile stopped him, buying two cups of water and, as he and the sergeant drank, questioned the water seller,

“I am but newly arrived at Sidi Baba,” he said. “It was many moons since I was last here and yet, if memory serves me well, there did not seem to be so many warriors in the streets then.” He sipped at the water. “Has some great Sheik set up his camp at the oasis?”

“Art thou touched by Allah that thou doesn’t not know what is forward?” The water seller, a wizened old man, grunted as he eased his burden. “Never before have I seen so many men in the streets and, Allah be praised, they care not what they spend. Ahmed, the sweet seller in the bazaar, is thinking of taking yet a third wife because of the gold that has recently poured into his bowl.” He chuckled and spat. “May Allah defend him from the wiles of Shaitan.... Two wives already and one rails at him all day for silks and fine raiment while the other is wrinkled like a date that has been left to dry in the sun. And yet, despite his burden, he thinks of taking a third wife.”

“It is written that a man should have many sons,” said Corville enigmatically. “How is it then that all this gold is to spend? Rhamadan is long past and, even if it were so, the time of fasting would not line your pockets with gold, What great occasion is this then which makes men think of adding to their burdens with extra wives?”

“Can it be that you have not heard?” The water seller shrugged and rinsed his mouth from the skin at his back, expertly letting a stream of water gush from the brass nozzle of the water skin. “The Hadji Hassan, the Mullah, the chosen of God, the Sword of Allah, the defender of the Faithful and the Slayer of the Infidel, is to speak at sundown. Whallah! Idle gossip will not buy bread. Allah go with you brother.”

“May you walk in peace,” replied Corville and, as the water seller turned away, his thin voice raised as he shouted his wares, spoke to the sergeant.

“Hadji Hassan is here. That would account for the gathering of the tribesmen. Something big is to happen and he is probably whipping them into a frenzy prior to the attack.” He frowned as he stared at the crowded streets.

Tall Arabs, armed with Lebels openly carried, with Sneiders, Martinis, Ross and a rare Lee-Enfield, swaggered down the streets and with them, ragged men still carrying the Jezails which had been handed down from father to son since the time when Arab craftsmen worked at primitive forges and fashioned the weapons by hand. Others mingled in the streets. Wild eyed hillmen with long swords belted around their waists, swords that had originally belonged to some adventurer who had fallen victim to the corsairs in the seventeenth century. Shaggy herders with their robes of untanned goat skin, wild as the hill men with their eyes dilated from habitual use of hashish and the knives at their belts ready to drink blood. All were attired in one way or another, all were fanatics and all walked as though they restrained themselves for the great day when they would rise and sweep the Infidels into the sea.

The wail of a Muezzin interrupted Smith’s reply and, in obedience to the call to prayer, both men knelt and faced towards the East.

“
Allah il Allah. Mohamed il Akbar....
There is no God but Allah and Mohammed is his Prophet....” The thin voice of the Muezzin carried to all the listening worshippers and. as they bowed towards Mecca the birthplace of Mohammed, Corville whispered instructions to the sergeant.

“We had better separate now. You wander the streets and see what information you can pick up. I’ll do the same. We’ll meet outside the house of Ali ben Sirdir just before sundown. I want to hear what this Hadji Hassan has got to say for himself.”

He bowed again, and Smith grunted as the prayer ended.

An hour before sundown they met again and the faces of both men showed the strain to which they had been subject. Corville led the way out of the town and sat down beneath a palm tree.

“We’re sitting on a volcano,” said Smith in Arabic. “The whole desert is aflame with the words of this Mullah. I’ve never seen so many tribes gathered together at the same time. Most of them are hereditary enemies and, to see how they tolerate each other, is incredible.”

“It’s dangerous,” said Corville sombrely. “If this Hassan has managed to unite the tribes then the French won’t stand a chance. The Legion will be wiped out, the colonials murdered, and it will take a full-scale invasion to restore law and order again.” He scowled towards the setting sun. “Le Farge must know of this by now. What he doesn’t know, and what I’ve been trying to find out, is where the main attack will be.”

“Marojia?” suggested Smith. “The arsenal would be the logical place.”

“I know, but with the force at his command El Monini could attack and destroy any fort he wishes.” Corville shook his head. “We’ve got to find out where they intend attacking so that we can concentrate our forces there and crush them for good.” He looked at the sergeant. “Did you learn anything of value?”

“No. I met up with a couple of Riffs and we drank coffee together. They know as little as we do. It seems that El Morini has gathered the tribesmen here to listen to the Mullah, this Hadji Hassan. I think that he must be the real brains behind the whole revolt. The Sheiks are dazzled with the idea, none of them have stopped to remember that divided rule will lead to perpetual unrest and the ruin of the country. It’s obvious to me that Hassan is working for some foreign power and that, if he can succeed in wiping out the Legion. they will move in to ‘keep the peace’. Once that happens France will never regain her position without an all out war.”

“That must not happen,” said Corville grimly. “So you assume that none of the tribesmen really know where the great attack is to take place?”

“Not yet, but they will know soon. They will follow their Sheiks but, at the same time, each man wants to know just what is happening and why. The reasons needn’t be the correct ones but if El Morini tries to give orders without taking them into his confidence, then they will melt away and return to their own tribes. The Arab is an individual and he is proud of his independence. Loyalty to him is something he gives and can take away again. El Morini daren’t chance that happening so, at sundown, I guess that Hassan will tell them where and when the attack is to take place.”

“Why at sundown, why not later?”

“The men are restless and want action. Also, the Mullah knows that the longer he waits the greater the danger of losing the element of surprise. We have agents who will learn what is happening, and he must have his own men spying on headquarters.” Smith frowned. “I can’t understand why he has waited so long. After the collapse of Fort Onassis I would have thought that they would have swept down on Marojia. Why the delay?”

“I don’t know, but we can be thankful for it. That wasted month was worrying me but now it seems as if it were all for the best. If we can get word to Sidi bel Abbes as to where the attack will take place then Colonel Le Farge can arrange for more men to be sent there.” He looked at the sergeant. “Have you managed to arrange for horses yet?”

“I have found a man who has a couple of camels for sale. I bought them, telling him that my master and his wives would be leaving soon. I....”

“Why did you tell him that?” Corville stared at the calm face of the sergeant. “I can’t afford to take the women with me.”

“You’ll have to. The Sheik Ali ben Sirdir thinks that the two women are your wives. You know as well as I do that no Arab would leave his wives with strangers, especially without guards and servants. Either you travel with the Sheik to Sidi bel Abbes, or you take them with you wherever you intend going.”

He was right, of course, and Corville knew it. If he intended leaving the Sheik then he would have to take the women with him. He couldn’t avoid it. To try and escape without them would be to call the wrath of the old Sheik down on his head and, remembering the fast horses and young men attached to the tribe, Corville knew that he wouldn’t stand a chance, Also, and more important, he daren’t leave the women too long alone. They would be certain to forget some detail as to conduct or custom and, even with the training he had given them during the past month, it was a risk that he dared not take.

He stiffened as some armed Arabs walked from between the palms and strode out into the desert. Others followed them, dozens, hundreds, thousands until the entire area was a mass of armed, feral-faced men. Corville hung back so that he and the sergeant were standing at the edge of the crowd when the Mullah, Hadji Hassan, rose to speak.

He was tall, extremely tall and towered above the squatting Arabs. He was thin and, in his eyes, burned the too-bright gleam of a fanatic. Standing beside him the Sheik El Morini together with a half-dozen other Sheiks, seemed small in comparison. A deathly hush fell over the crowd, a tense silence in which every man seemed to have stopped breathing and even the tiny sounds of weapons striking buckles, the rustle of loose garments, and the thousand tiny noises of many men died away so that the whole desert seemed hushed and walking into that moment of crystal clear purity the sound of the Mullah’s voice echoed with startling effect.

“In the name of Allah, the all-merciful, the all wise, the all-knowing. In the name of Mohammed his prophet. In the name of the Kabaala, the Holy Stone of Mecca and in the name of the Koran, the Book of Truth. I, Hadji Hassan, greet you as brothers.”

“In the name of Allah,” breathed the crowd and the sound of their murmuring voices was as the surge of distant waves.

“How long, oh my brothers, are we to allow the infidel to spit upon our mosques and laugh in our beards? How long will the proud sons of the desert bend their necks to the heel of the Ferengi? Where is the blood of your fathers, oh Children of God? When the unbelieving dogs of the French take your tents and your rifles, strip you naked and set you on a level with the jackals of the desert, then will you raise your voice in protest, I tell you that even now the Ferengi are plotting to despoil you with their taxes and laws. I tell you....”

It was a masterly oration and, listening to the thin penetrating voice, Corville could guess the reaction on those around him. They did not cheer, or interrupt, that was not the Arab way, but at the end of each brief oration when the Mullah paused for breath, they gave a single shout that sent echoes over the silent sands and made the jackals howl in the far distance.

Corville looked at Smith as the sergeant tugged at his arm.

“What is it?”

“The place of attack. We must discover when and where.”

Corville nodded and, waiting his chance during a pause in the Mullah’s oration, whispered to his neighbour, a gaunt-faced hill man.

“Words,” he gritted. “Empty words. When do we grind the Ferengi dogs into the sand? I came to the gathering place for fighting not to listen to words.”

“Patience, brother,” whispered the hill man, but Corville could see that his words had taken effect. “All will be as it is written.”

Again the Hadji Hassan spoke and again, in a following pause, Corville whispered his irritation and impatience to neighbours. And now he could see the effects of his words for, as one man whispered to another, the crowd began to grow restless and impatient. Corville saw his chance and, despite the risk, took it.

“I have travelled far, oh Hadji,” he called. “I long to kill the unbelievers but, how can I do that while wasting my strength here at Sidi Baba. Show me the Ferengi dogs so that I may destroy them to the Glory of Allah.”

A shout echoed his words. A deep-chested roar of approval and, as he heard it, the Mullah whitened a little then spoke to the Sheiks around him.

“Peace,” intoned El Morini. “The time is not yet. I....”

“The time is now,” howled a hill man, his eyes glaring with hate. “Death to the unbelievers! Death to the Ferengi! Death! Death! Death!”

Others took up the shout and a Berber, his mouth writhing as if he were in a fit, waved his Jezail and screamed at the top of his voice for the attack to begin—now.