“I am excellent at geography, sir, and map reading.”
“There are few maps of where we are going. Almost all of them wrong.”
“I can help correct them, sir. I am skilled with a sextant and can navigate.” Paul was desperate to be accepted by the colonel. “I have not traveled in Algeria, but my aunt was Tuareg,” he volunteered. He regretted it the instant he said it.
“Yes, I know of the countess. An escaped killer, I believe,” said the colonel dryly. “Hardly in your favor. Do you know where she is now?”
“No, sir.”
“Any idea whether she is even alive?”
“I have not heard from her or the count since… since the siege, Colonel. Ten years ago now.”
“She was presumed dead at the time. I recall an officer swore he killed the count, but they never found a body. She and her son – that would be your cousin? – were presumed lost in a balloon during a storm. Interesting story. Tragic. I suppose she would be of no use to us anyway. Still, she was Hoggar Tuareg, was she not?” “Oui, Colonel.”
“It is through the Hoggar that we propose to journey.”
“I am aware of that, sir. I have read Minister Freycinet’s papers on the subject. All of them.”
The expedition proposed by the minister of public works, Charles Freycinet, was the largest ever mounted by France into the Sahara. Lieutenant Colonel Paul Flatters had already led one expedition into the desert and was organizing a second. His mission was to survey a railroad route through the Sahara with the idea of opening trade between France and a hundred million black African customers. The very pride of France rode on the project. The nation had physically recovered from her humiliation at the hands of the Prussians, but the mental wounds were unhealed. There was no better salve for bruised egos than a grandiose scheme such as the one now cooking in the halls of the National Assembly, where excitement was building over the prospect of such a daring feat. The Americans had completed a railway between two coasts more than a decade earlier, through inhospitable lands. All the world knew that whatever the Americans could do the French could do better and, more important, with greater flair.
Complaints that the American West was no Sahara fell on deaf ears, as did concerns that no railroad could long survive in the shifting sands of the desert, that there was no supply of water, coal, or wood to fuel the trains. “Details to devil small minds,” snapped the minister to his critics. The politicians believed that the vast desert must be developed as the critical link between their provinces in the north of Algeria and Senegal and Timbuktu in the south. French interests were quickly altering the map of the interior of Africa, and the Sahara stood between those interests and the homeland. “If France does not move quickly to fill the void,” declared the minister to the National Assembly, “the British and the Germans surely shall.” Once thrown down, such a gauntlet could not fail to be picked up by the French nation. There were new frontiers to conquer, from Indochina to the shadowy rich forests of Africa. One could not let other nations have it all. If the Sahara itself Was not a jewel, it was at least the way to the jewels. “Paris to the tropics in six days!” trumpeted the headlines, and in a frenzy of self-confidence the assembly provided the money.
Several routes were being considered, but the one along which the Flatters expedition would travel seemed the most likely, as it began from Wargla, a desert town to which France had already extended its influence. Flatters had assembled a group of engineers and surveyors, to be accompanied by a military escort made up of French officers, nearly fifty tirailleurs – riflemen of the Armée d’Afrique – for firepower, and cameleers from among the Shamba – conscripts who were legendary caravanners and could help ensure the success of the long trip.
There had been mild interest among the graduating cadets at St. Cyr for the one remaining position in the expedition, and now Paul was one of two final candidates. St. Cyr was full of hard-drinking, hard-playing men, most of whom would be content to receive plum assignments in French garrisons around Paris. Paul wanted none of that. A decade earlier he had stood with his hand in Gascon’s as they watched Wilhelm and Bismarck lead their Prussians down the Champs-Élysées. That day he had carried the shame of all France on his small shoulders. Then he had cringed with his mother in the cellar of the château as the mad pétroleuses poured rivers of fire through Paris and brother fought brother in the civil war they called the Commune. He understood nothing of what had happened, only that he felt like a coward, using his mother’s skirts to hide from rabid women and their fire. After that he dreamed only of the army, of the desert. His father had served there. Over his mother’s objections he had entered St. Cyr, where he had studied while the others played. From the instant he had heard of the Flatters expedition he could barely contain his excitement. He wanted it. It was a chance to be strong, a chance at history.
The colonel gauged the strength of the young man standing before him. What he had not revealed was another of the trifling troubles with his plans. He had written to the amenokal of the Hoggar Tuareg, a man named Ahitagel. Flatters had asked permission for the second expedition to pass through the amenokal’s territory. He had received the response only recently and had not shared it with anyone, not even with his own wife.
You are not welcome here, the letter said. Try another route.
Flatters had spent years in the Arab bureau, in various northern oases of the desert. The letter was the typical bluster, he decided, of a weak man. One replied to such rudeness with strength. The colonel would first try paying the Tuareg to forget their objections. Everyone knew they lived for the bribe. If that didn’t work he would brush them aside, crush them if necessary.
“We may have difficulties with various of the indigenous tribes of the region,” the colonel said vaguely to Paul. “Does that trouble you?”
“Of course not, sir. It is what I have trained for.”
“I must rely upon my officers to be prepared for anything.”
“They will be no match for our forces, Colonel. It is my understanding that you will be using the Shamba with your troops. I have heard that there are no better soldiers among the Arab people.”
“Romantic crap, deVries. You had better divorce yourself of such ignorant notions. They are cowards, like all Arabs. But I will grant you they are the best of the cowards. They are barely trainable, like dogs. They will steal one blind. One must watch them constantly.” Paul was disconcerted by the contempt in the colonel’s words for the men who would be serving under him, but said nothing. The colonel had spent enough years among them to be entitled to his opinion. Certainly he must know how to handle his men. Yet as he looked at the colonel he couldn’t help but wonder about the man, who wasn’t at all what Paul had pictured. The colonel hardly appeared the cunning desert warrior. He thought such an officer would have more… flair. Flatters carried himself like a man bored by the world, suffering through life instead of savoring it. He was overweight and had a high forehead and short thick neck. He had a neatly waxed mustache, a round face and florid complexion. His temper was legendary, and some said he was given to bouts of depression. Paul had heard rumors of disaster on the first Flatters expedition, of cowardice and poor command decisions. But such complaints were heard about any military venture and Paul shrugged them off. Whether the colonel who sat before him was the ideal French warrior or not, one thing was certain. Paul was determined not to be left behind.
Flatters stared at the anxious junior officer. “You seem to have fire in your belly, Lieutenant,” he said. “Well, the desert will put that out soon enough. It will grind you down, the same way it does every man who goes there.”
“It will not do that to me, Colonel.”
“Hmmmph. So says every man. Still, you seem fit enough, if somewhat lacking in substance.” Flatters made his decision. Without enthusiasm he nodded. “Very well, Lieutenant deVries, I suppose you’ll have to do. I will arrange matters with your commandant. We leave in a fortnight. You’d better get moving
. You have a lot to do.”
* * *
“You are doing this to hurt me.” Elisabeth sniffed. They sat in the study of the château before a roaring fire.
“Nonsense, Mother. I am doing it because I want to. It has nothing to do with you.”
“That’s just the trouble. Nothing you do these days seems to have anything to do with me. And why some dreary backwater with savages? We have the money, the connections. You can get an assignment here, in Paris. I can arrange—”
“I don’t want you to arrange anything, Mother. I don’t want connections. I want to do this myself.”
“You are so stubborn, Paul. Honestly, I wish you would act with a little more dignity, like a count.”
“Please don’t start, Mother. I’m not a count.”
“You will be, as soon as the court has ruled your uncle dead.”
“You want him dead, don’t you?”
“What a horrid thing to say! Of course not. But what I want isn’t important. He is dead. I only want the court to recognize that, to make it formal. To make you the new Count deVries.”
It was an old and futile argument between them. “If Uncle Henri is dead then Moussa is the count, not I. It doesn’t matter anyway. France is a republic, Mother, in case you’ve forgotten. The days of counts and kings are gone. There is no nobility anymore.”
“There are titles and tradition.”
“They mean nothing. They’re just for show.”
“This estate is certainly not for show!” She sighed. “Dear God, Paul, I’ve told you a thousand times. They died escaping! All of them, including Moussa! No one could have survived. If they’d gotten away they would have written us by now – if not openly, then secretly. You know that! Ten years, and there has been not one word! Not one! Nothing but death could have kept them silent for so long! Why do you have such trouble accepting that?”
“Because I am in no hurry to bury them, Mother. I don’t want what is theirs. I only want the army. I want Africa.”
“Africa! The army!” She let the words slither from her tongue like repulsive serpents. “What about the army could possibly hold your fascination or respect? Is it not enough what the army did to your father? Is it not enough the army was humiliated by the… Huns? It is no career for a man of your talents! Besides, you don’t need a career! Whatever you want, anything at all, is right here in Paris! Madame Deveaux is begging me to convince you to take her daughter Monique to one of the balls!”
“Monique is an idiot, Mother. I wouldn’t take her to a cockfight.”
“Paul! Mind your tongue!”
“It’s true. I’m tired of you trying to find me a wife. I’m tired of you trying to run my life. You take Monique to the ball, if it pleases you! I’m going to Africa!”
He slammed the door. Elisabeth sat still for long moments, her heart racing, her hands trembling. Mon Dieu, the very thought that he treated her so! She listened as Paul’s horse thundered down the drive. She poured herself a brandy and walked to the desk where Henri had spent so many comfortable nights before the same raging fire. She sat in the chair and stared at the drawer.
She hated the drawer, yet was fascinated by it.
From around her neck she drew a slim gold chain, at the end of which was a key. She put the key in the lock and opened the drawer. It was stuffed with letters, wrapped in two bundles. Absently she shuffled through one. They carried dates spanning most of the last decade, the envelopes addressed in a hand that had visibly matured over the years. They were all addressed to Paul. All from a wretched little place in the Sahara called the Hoggar. Elisabeth knew about the Hoggar. The first few years she had read the letters carefully. She had read them just long enough to learn what had become of the count, his wife, and his son. When she realized they weren’t coming back to France she stopped reading the letters and simply put the new ones into the bundle. Then two years ago they had stopped coming.
The other packet contained the letters Paul had written to Moussa over the same period. She had read all of those, some of them many times. It was the only way she could keep up with what her son had been doing, what he had been thinking. They were a journal of his life, revealing things he certainly never told her. Even though they often hurt her feelings, she read them anyway, finding them useful when she needed to prod him one way or another.
Both bundles sat in the drawer on top of the pathetic little letter Jules had written to his son the night he died. She didn’t know why she hadn’t destroyed them. She should burn them all, just as she had burned the letter from Jules to Henri. That one had been simply too inflammatory.
Now as she closed the drawer and locked it, she worried that somehow Paul would meet his cousin in the desert. Of all things, that he should hook up with this madman Flatters and go to the very place where she thought the past had disappeared forever – it was so unfair! She was terrified that something would happen to upset her plans, the plans she’d worked so carefully. Since the count and his murderess – Elisabeth loved the delicious word – disappeared that night, she had been countess in all but name. She had access to the money, to the assets, to everything, and no one to challenge her. The château was hers, her parties grand, Henri’s furniture burned and her own installed. But still she coveted the mantle that had always eluded her. Her husband had never been able to obtain it, and now she would have it for her son. She had waited the required nine years before she could begin the process of declaring the missing count dead. There were no other heirs to interfere. If Serena were ever to return she would end up in prison.
Only one danger remained: the wretched half-breed Moussa. She had been delighted to read of him playing like some desert sheikh. She exulted when he wrote of his love for the desert, that he wanted to live there forever. Feeling secure at last, she had filed the court papers. And now she very nearly had it all.
Elisabeth sat alone in the darkening room. One of her half-dozen servants appeared to inquire timidly, “Does the countess care for dinner?” She waved him away and drank her brandy and stared into the fire.
CHAPTER 21
That such ecstasy could dwell next to such misery inside the same heart was a shock to Daia.
For days she had been torn, her mood soaring and then plunging. She didn’t know what to do.
Daia lived in the ariwan of Mano Biska, one of the minor chiefs of the Ihaggaren. There she had grown from scrawny goat girl to beautiful woman. For several years she had had many suitors, but she turned them all away without interest. Only one man had held her interest, and the interest had not been returned. Besides, she was in no hurry for marriage. Then Mahdi had begun to visit, appearing in her ariwan more often than his business in the camp required. He always took the time to call on her. The other women were jealous. Mahdi was of excellent lineage, the son of El Hadj Akhmed, the great amenokal killed in the Ajjer wars. Mahdi was a man in whom all the greatest strengths of the Ihaggaren dwelled, a man who would inevitably make his strong mark in the history of the Hoggar. But the women’s jealousy was in vain. Mahdi cared for none but Daia.
If Mahdi might make an exceptional mate, his ways were hard. She knew he could be cruel, that he was quick to temper, and that his tongue was sharper than any blade. He was renowned as a warrior, and his family would never lack for food or wealth. Yet his rages created much trouble even among his family. His own father had publicly chastised him for his eruptions. He was nearly alone among the Ihaggaren in his devotion to Islam, and his eyes burned when he spoke of it. He was as tightly coiled as an adder, and as quick to strike.
Yet Mahdi seemed a different man when he was near her. He brought her gifts of jewelry and cloth. In her presence all the ferocity melted away, and he seemed gentle as a lamb, yet stiff and nervous too, overwhelmed by her presence.
On a splendid night beneath a winter moon there had been an ahal, a romantic gathering at which the women sang to the soulful notes of the one-stringed imzad and men read poetry that joined with the quiet rhythm of
the night drums. Mahdi’s voice became soft as he said surprisingly tender things, things she never expected to hear from a man whose nature smoldered as if it had been forged in the smith’s fires. Before the appreciative crowd he recited a poem he’d written for her.
My heart is the eagle
Whose wings brush the peak
that is Daia,
but never own her.
I stop there to rest, and find beauty
unseen from the air.
Soft edges, silken places
that gladden my heart.
Daia, the wondrous peak
becomes now a song.
Sweet gentle rhythms upon my mind.
Who is she, this woman who tames the eagle,
Who holds my heart?
She knew he had labored with the words, which did not come naturally to him, words that seemed sweeter and more meaningful because of it. She knew that together they would make fine daughters and sons of the desert. In so many respects he was the perfect mate. When she confessed she was troubled vaguely by his hard dark side, which could erupt in such a frightening manner, Anna, the old slave who was like her mother, had scoffed at her doubts. “It is the hard edge that makes the sword great,” she said. “You deserve his interest, as he deserves yours. It would be a mistake to turn him away.”
Yes, she knew she was lucky. She told herself that her influence could still the fires that raged inside him.
Four days after the abal, Mahdi had sent an emissary to her ariwan. As was the custom, Keradji, the one-eyed blacksmith, had come to broach the subject of marriage. Daia had no mother or father or uncle to ask – and one would not discuss such a matter with Anna – so Keradji spoke directly with Daia. She had thought it over carefully. It was not the easy decision she had always expected it to be, but in the end she assented.
That had all been thirty days ago. A lifetime. Before the laughter. Ah, the laughter.
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