“We will leave him,” Moussa said at last. “Find his water guerba and his food. Leave them here, next to him. Take his weapons. Gather all the camels, including his. We will take them all.” Bashaga looked at him with fearful eyes, not understanding the gibberish coming from the Tuareg, wondering what terrible fate they might be devising for him. By Allah, was death by the sword not horrible enough to suit the blue devil?
“Forgive me, sire,” Lufti said, shaking his head earnestly, determined to keep his master from this folly. “You must kill him. Quick-quick, for the others still flee. This man is Shamba.” He spat the word. “He will cut off his own leg and crawl upon his stump in order to hunt you, and when he finds you he will cut your throat in the darkness as he has done to Sala.”
“There is nothing left of this man to crawl. He will die here, and it will be his own work, or the work of the desert. We have recovered what he stole. It is enough. Now do as I say.”
When they left Bashaga’s howl haunted them until it was swallowed by the wind.
* * *
As he rode through the afternoon Moussa tormented himself with more of the awful uncertainty that seemed to haunt his life. He was bitterly disappointed in himself. He had recovered four camels, but he failed to finish the job like a man. Merde, his own mother would have done it.
Riding behind, Lufti had been silent for hours. At first he was certain an error had been made. But as he thought about it his doubts had turned to pride as he convinced himself how thoroughly Moussa had humbled the Shamba. At length he began to nod excitedly to himself and to cackle at Moussa’s coup. Only a great warrior could afford to show mercy to such vermin. Such a beneficent man, Master Moussa. So young, and already a wise and great soldier. Tales began to blossom in Lufti’s head, where a little flourish here and an embellishment there would transform the day into legend. His thoughts turned to the unfortunate quarry fleeing before them. He hurried to catch up.
“It has been a glorious day, sire,” he said as he drew abreast. Moussa said nothing, so Lufti carried on happily. “Oh-oh, how you had him! Such a look of terror in his eyes! Like a child before a snake. Surely he thought he was doomed! And just as surely the others do not know the strength of the storm that follows them! Yaya, they had best flee with their lives!”
Moussa gave him no acknowledgment. He stared straight ahead and listened to him chatter on. He had clearly heard the earlier tone of disapproval in Lufti’s voice, and now in his misery and uncertainty wondered if the slave was mocking him, as they would all mock him soon. The thought stirred rage into his shame, and the mix began to boil inside. I am the master, he told himself. It is I who am Ihaggaren. What he feels does not matter.
“Shut up!” he hissed. “Do you hear me? Shut up!” Stung, confused, the slave hung his head. He slowed his camel and dropped back once more to ride in silence and shame.
Moussa gritted his teeth. Another mistake. A proper Tuareg did not show anger or speak harshly to another, and certainly not to a slave. There was no dignity in such behavior. Would he never learn?
He felt as desolate as the vast empty Amadror that stretched out before him. His throat was dry and bitter. He ached inside and his head pounded and the hot air baked his eyes.
I am not Ihaggaren. I am a coward, a fool.
Behind his veil he wept.
* * *
Abdul ben Henna scooped heaps of sand with his hands from around the wells of Tan-tan, hollowing out a depression from which his camels could drink. Across from him Kadder did the same, father and son working feverishly to provide enough water quickly to the thirsty caravan so that they could get moving once again. As Abdul had feared, it would not be a quick process. Some wells in the desert were deep holes, into which skins attached to ropes were dropped and then lifted out, the precious water then poured into sandy troughs from which the animals could drink. Other wells, like the one at which they labored, relied on seepage. On the surface they appeared dry, but when they were scooped out the water began to appear. They had to wait for water to filter into the depression, and then the camels could drink. The noisy beasts pushed at each other to get at the water and slurped it up greedily. They stomped around in the sand and pissed in it while they drank, until the depression was a fetid wet mess. If Allah was with them they would be done by morning.
Periodically he peered south into the void. “They will not be far behind us,” he kept saying.
“Surely Bashaga will stop them with his gun,” Kadder said hopefully.
Abdul grunted. “My brother is a fool,” he growled. “He will stop nothing but a Tuareg sword.”
The sun grew golden in the sky as it began to set. The colors softened and the shadows of the watering camels lengthened until they stretched out like flat black giants on the plain.
It was from the north, not from the south, that Moussa and Lufti watched them. Once Lufti had been certain that Tan-tan was the destination of the caravan, he had led them on a route that skirted the well, and positioned them in front of it. They had found a shallow wadi that would help conceal their camels, which they double-hobbled and left behind. They had cautiously half-crawled back toward the well and lay on their stomachs as they watched. Lufti carried a short stabbing knife that he had assured Moussa he was ready and willing to use, although Moussa was skeptical.
Moussa’s heart pounded as he surveyed the scene. The two Shamba worked with their backs toward them and were mostly obscured by the milling camels. The land surrounding Tan-tan was perfectly flat. They could go no farther without being seen. “There is nothing to give us cover,” he said in a low voice to Lufti, who was already clutching his knife. “We’ll have to do it after dark.”
“Yaya, sire,” Lufti said. “After dark, certainly.” He paused, thinking. “And what is it, sire, that we will do after dark?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
Lufti nodded. “Of course, sire.”
By four o’clock in the morning the Shamba were exhausted and the camels nearly full. Twice during the night Abdul had leapt up, racing to the perimeter of the encampment, certain someone was there. Nervously clutching his rifle, he listened intently, seeing shadows where there were none, imagining the Tuareg flashing before his eyes. He knew the darkness hid death, but could do nothing about things he could not see. They had spent too many precious hours at the well. It was not a good sign that Bashaga had not appeared.
“Kadder,” he snapped, kicking his drowsy son. “Get up. It is time to remove the hobbles of the animals. Get your own mehari ready. We must go.”
Kadder groaned. His hands were blistered and bloody from his labors. Every muscle in his body ached for rest. He turned his back to his father’s boot.
At that instant the whole world around the well went utterly mad. First Lufti let out a call for the stolen camels, a familiar cry recognized by the biggest of the bulls, which struggled to its feet to respond. An instant later, from the opposite side of the camp, Moussa fired his rifle into the air and unleashed a bloodcurdling scream, and the scene turned to bedlam. Shrieking and panicked, a large Tibesti bolted away from the noise, pulling on the tethers that held it to other camels who joined it in flight. Others rose and followed quickly, all of them moving awkwardly, struggling against their hobbles or their ropes, moaning and bellowing as they stumbled toward Abdul and Kadder. Kadder jumped to his feet, a sword in one hand, a knife in the other, and moved straight toward the onrushing mass of camels, threading his way through their legs and bodies toward the Tuareg he knew were on the other side. In a panic Abdul lunged for his rifle and fired it blindly into the dark. He wounded a camel whose shrieks added to the chaos. He cursed loudly, his fingers fumbling to reload.
Out of the corner of his eye Moussa saw Lufti moving toward the younger of the two Shamba, and then lost him in the jumble of legs and bodies. Moussa concentrated on the one with the rifle, carefully raising his weapon and peering through the darkness, waiting until the mass of camels had passed and he had the
man in his sights. The Shamba was helpless and exposed as he struggled with his weapon. Moussa knew he had him. This time there was no hesitation.
His finger squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened.
He squeezed again. Nothing. The gun was no use and he flung it aside. He drew his heavy sword from its scabbard and raced through the darkness toward the Shamba. Abdul saw the swirling robes and gleaming steel. He raised his rifle like a club to parry the blow of the sword as it hissed through the air toward his neck. The blade took a chunk out of the stock of the gun. Moussa swung again, and once more Abdul parried, only this time the rifle flew from his hands and fell to the ground. Abdul’s knife was out instantly, its blade lashing out and catching cloth and flesh. Moussa felt it nick his side but kept moving, turning and twisting until he faced Abdul again. They circled each other warily, Moussa’s thoughts on the deadly tip of the Shamba knife. He held his sword in both hands and heard the whispers of Gascon and Abu Bakar guiding his steps. He felt almost light-headed, without fear. Moussa took a mighty swing and Abdul ducked, the sword just missing his shoulder. Again a swing, again a miss, and before Moussa knew it the other man had lunged into him, his knife flashing at his throat. The sword slipped from Moussa’s hands and both men fell hard to the ground. They rolled over. Moussa caught Abdul’s wrist as the blade sought his neck. Twice the blade touched his skin. Twice he forced it back, not knowing whether he had been cut. There was no time to think or to feel, only the strain of muscle against muscle, arms quivering with the effort. Summoning all his strength, Moussa kicked Abdul back, and at once his hand found the stabbing knife he kept beneath his sleeve. Abdul sprang to his feet and Moussa rose to meet him, knife against knife.
Abdul lunged and Moussa dodged, but this time not quickly enough, and the Shamba’s blade found its mark. Moussa gasped as he felt the searing pain shoot through his right shoulder and down his arm, and it was all he could do not to lose hold of his knife. He shifted it into his other hand and kept moving. Abdul gloated at the strike; he could see the devil trying to keep both arms raised, but the right one, the strong one, was down, nearly useless. Then he saw the devil stumble. With all his remaining strength and speed, Abdul went for the kill, his blade first in one hand as he began, then in the other, a feint and a stab, his blade at the devil’s throat. But in a blinding instant he knew he had missed, his weapon caught in the folds of cloth covering the monster’s head and neck. Even before he felt the steel of the enemy’s blade he knew it was over. He had seen nothing of his opponent’s face, save the eyes. It was one of the reasons why he hated them. They killed in mystery.
As Moussa’s stabbing knife pushed up through to his brain, Abdul ben Henna’s last thoughts were of revenge.
* * *
Lufti awoke with the dawn, his head pounding. He had been knocked cold by the surge of camels. He struggled to his feet, blinking, and surveyed the scene. Near the smoldering ashes of the fire was the body of Kadder, whose neck had been broken in the same rush.
He saw Moussa sitting near the well, his back propped against a dead camel. Lufti ran to him. Moussa sat dazed. At his feet was the body of the other Shamba. Sometime in the night Moussa had cut a piece of the dead man’s shesh into a bandage and wrapped it around his arm. The material was stained with blood. He shivered slightly.
The slave knelt down. “Sire? Are you all right?” The material of his master’s shesh had slipped, almost obscuring his eyes. His gaze seemed distant, fixed on something only he could see. “Sire?” Lufti shook his shoulder gently.
Moussa looked at him blankly. Almost imperceptibly, he nodded.
Relieved, Lufti burst into chatter. “That was a wondrous plan, sire. Oh-oh, yaya, wondrous! Hamdullilah! They didn’t know what hit them! Surely they thought the whole of the Ihaggaren were upon them!” Lufti swelled with pride.
Moussa looked at the dead form before him, his mind taking in what had happened. His knife had done its work. His duty had been fulfilled. He had redeemed himself. He was a man. He stared at his hands, stained with the life of another man.
His hands. Noble hands. The hands of an Ihaggaren. And then it overwhelmed him and he bent over and the vomit came, wave after wave of it. Lufti was puzzled. He couldn’t imagine what was wrong, why there was no celebration. Only this odd retching illness. Another defect, perhaps, of the master’s French side – but of course, Lufti would cut the throat of anyone who dared suggest such a thing. The nobleman was a magnificent warrior.
The slave could only turn away, and begin rounding up the stolen camels for the long journey home. He would not look again upon the heaving form of his master, and he would wipe the scene from his memory. His master’s dignity would be preserved.
* * *
There was not even the satisfaction of triumph in their return to the Tuareg camp. Moussa knew immediately something was wrong, terribly wrong. The children should have been everywhere, running through the legs of the returning camels, chattering and screaming and laughing. Instead he saw them standing mute. There were not the usual fires or activity in the camp. Small groups of slaves sat talking among themselves.
He saw Serena, waiting for him near her tent. Beautiful, she stood in the sun, her hair lifted gently by the wind. He saw the joy and relief in her eyes as she watched him coming, and her pride at the string of camels he led. But he saw too the sorrow that overshadowed all else.
“Mother, what has happened?” he said as he drew near her.
“The amenokal is dead,” she said simply.
“Abba?” Moussa slipped quickly from his camel. He put his arm around her shoulder and together they found shade in her tent. He listened numbly as she told him.
“Three nights after your departure, the Kel Ajjer came. There were twenty of them, maybe more. They attacked the camp of the Dag Rali. There was only the amenokal to fight them, and three others of the Kel Ulli. Everyone else is still away. I tried to stop him, to make him wait until we could get help. He was too ill to go, but he would have none of it. A shepherd found their bodies this morning.”
Moussa held her and gently stroked her cheek. That night, for a second time, mother and son stood in the wind above a pile of rocks and buried a part of their lives.
CHAPTER 20
October 1880
“So you want to go to Africa.”
Lieutenant Colonel Flatters sat at the borrowed desk in the commandant’s quarters of St. Cyr, the military academy near Versailles outside Paris, and studied the dossier of the twenty-year-old second lieutenant standing at attention. He looked up at the eager face. “Yes, sir.”
“It is said Africa is a good place to advance your career. Is that your interest?”
“That is a well-known theory, sir, but I believe it is also a good place to serve my country. I have no objection if it also helps my career. I believe I could be of use to you on your mission.”
“Oui, I suppose it is a good place to serve your country. It is also a good place to die.”
“I have no intention of dying there, sir.”
“I trust not. Yet I wonder how you feel you can be of use to me. Your dossier is painfully brief. Do you speak Arabic?”
“No, sir. Latin.”
“Latin! I’m certain that will be quite useful in the Sahara, Lieutenant,” said the colonel sarcastically. “Berber?”
“No.”
“Have you been to Algeria?”
“No, sir.” Paul had been to Spain, but felt it wise not to attempt impressing the colonel with the fact. “Ridden a camel?”
Paul shifted on his feet and stared straight ahead. “No, sir.”
“Hmmmm.” Flatters settled back into his chair and continued reading. Presently he spoke without looking up.
“I knew your father.”
“Yes, sir.” People often said that, especially the older officers. It could be good, and it could be bad. Sometimes it wasn’t even true, just words spoken about an infamous man to gauge a son’s reaction. He
had learned not to react, but to wait for the rest of it: the embarrassed cough, the averted eyes, or the commiseration and the spirited defense. The case of Jules deVries still sparked intense reactions, but Paul read no meaning in the colonel’s eyes.
“It is as much because of him as your record at St. Cyr, that the commandant has recommended you to me.”
“I would prefer that you consider me on my own merits,” Paul said stiffly.
“Then my consideration shall be brief at best,” replied the colonel, studying the file. “High initiative, which seems your strong point. Acceptable marks. Excellent grasp of history and math, I see, both of which rank somewhere near Latin in usefulness in the desert.”
“I believe the colonel himself wrote a book of the history of the desert before the Arabs arrived. It was an excellent work, sir, if I may say so.”
“You read it?” Flatters asked skeptically.
“Oui, Colonel. You suggested that the Arabs and Islam would never find a foothold in a Berber land.”
“And now I propose to see whether the Christian French can do any better. You must wonder at my optimism.”
“Not at all, sir. The French will do better.”
“And why is that?”
“Because it is the destiny of France to rule.”
Flatters nodded absently at that. “I hope it is her destiny to rule more than a horrid desert,” he muttered so that Paul could barely hear. He was silent for a moment. He shifted in his chair, trying to ease the acute pain of sciatica. He looked at the young man through glazed eyes. “Any other qualifications with which to impress me, Lieutenant?”
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