* * *
Paul reached the top of the ridge first and saw the sea of death churning in the valley below. The reek of blood and powder and sweat made him flinch.
It took him a few seconds to absorb the teeming color, the dead tirailleurs and officers and engineers, the crush of blue, the camels rushing madly about. He could imagine what the valley must have looked like before he’d arrived. What he could not comprehend was the one before him now. It wasn’t the disorder, or the stench, or the defeat. It was what the Tuareg had begun once they’d won.
Their blood lust seemed to have increased as they gathered around the bodies of the expeditionary force. That the men were already dead was clear; their bodies were twisted and bloody and still. But the Tuareg seemed to be just beginning. They stripped rifles, swords, rings, and whatever else of value they could find. Then they ripped the clothes off of the corpses, heaved the nude bodies into a pile, and began hacking and stabbing and sawing and mutilating, severing limbs and heads and fingers and turning the pile into a viscous bloody muck. Plumes of smoke billowed lazily from the clothing, which they’d torched but burned poorly for all the blood.
Suddenly the resonant voice of Tamrit ag Amellal rose from some obscure spot hidden from Paul’s view. Paul didn’t understand the words of Tamashek that floated over the amphitheater, words that echoed off the walls and stopped men for a moment in what they were doing. But he didn’t need to understand the words to interpret their ghastly tone. When Tamrit finished he repeated the words in Arabic, his message for Shamba and Tuareg alike.
“And those who disbelieve will be gathered unto Hell, that Allah may separate the wicked from the good. The wicked he will place piece upon piece, and heap them all together, and consign them unto Hell. Such verily are the losers. And Allah said I will throw fear into the hearts of those who disbelieve. Then smite the necks and smite of them each finger…”
Paul vomited, unable to stop, unable even to lean one way or another to get it clear of his camel. It came too quickly and too violently, and covered his mehari’s neck. He leaned forward, clutching his stomach, shutting his eyes, gagging, choking, coughing.
El Madani arrived at the ridge, his four men close behind him, and saw the retching officer and the scene below. El Madani felt the familiar bite of bile, but he had learned to keep it away until the danger passed. The firing had all but stopped. Only Remy remained, crouching behind his camel. His situation was hopeless. El Madani was unslinging his rifle by the time his camel had stopped moving, but there was nothing he could do now except give away their position. He held his fire and motioned for his men to do the same.
Alone, Remy was confronting the mounted Tuareg from behind his dead camel. He’d run out of ammunition, but not before leaving a score of dead on the rocks before him. He grabbed the barrel of his rifle to use it like a club. He stepped up onto the belly of his camel to get sufficient height, and the first rider was upon him. He dodged the Targui’s lance and brought the rider down with a terrific upward swing, catching the man full in the chest and flipping him off his mount. He kept hold of his rifle and swung it again, but then was engulfed in a crush of swirling blue.
Paul heard the Tuareg shrilling and looked up. He saw Remy swinging the rifle, and a great sword rushing down. Remy’s left arm came off, the hand still clutching the rifle as it spun slowly upward, Remy’s force behind it, the arm and rifle twirling together in a long slow arc to the ground. In the same instant he was speared through the chest, the momentum knocking him off his feet, the force of the spear pushing its point all the way through him and into the ground, where he died pinned like an insect. The swarm of blue warriors was on him in an instant, the bloody ritual of stripping and butchery beginning once more.
Paul heaved again, nearly falling from his saddle. El Madani reached over to steady him. There was nothing he could say to the boy. Paul was ashamed, but the paroxysms of nausea left him unable to move. He heard El Madani almost whisper to himself: “Les chameaux.” At first it didn’t register. His mind was consumed with what his eyes had seen, and his body was trying to purge it. But then he understood, in a flash: the camels! The killing was over below, but there were still men back at the base camp, on foot. Without camels they would die too, and the Tuareg might not have to fire a shot to accomplish it. They had to get the camels back. It was the only thing left, the only thing to do. The thought wrestled with his nausea for control. Paul breathed deeply, concentrating, and then straightened up, his face ghostly pale, bits of vomit clinging to his chin. He looked once more into the valley. The camels were milling everywhere, spread out from east to west in bunches. Yes, it was possible, it could be done if they could get down behind where Remy had fought. There was hope. He looked at Madani, who was studying the valley.
“You stay here,” Paul gasped to the old tirailleur. “We’re going down.” He expected an argument, but Madani nodded. What had to be done was for younger legs. He could be more help from here.
“You must hurry,” El Madani said. “They have begun.” He pointed at the boulders near the west entrance. Some of the Tuareg were starting to lead the camels out. Paul jumped down from his camel, grabbing his rifle and issuing quick orders to the tirailleurs. They dismounted quickly, understanding the urgency. Without another word, the five of them started down the hill. Paul had taken no more than a few steps when he stopped, cursed, and turned, racing back up the hill to his camel. He put his hand on the bag.
“Floop, stay.” The command was unnecessary. The noise and the smells had convinced Floop that the bag was a fine place to be just then.
El Madani dismounted, pulled ammunition from the supply bag, and looked for a rock with a view.
The five of them half-ran, half-fell down the hill, moving as quickly as they could on the rocky slope. They were well past the Tuareg clustered around Remy’s body before they were spotted, and heard frenzied yells as they disappeared into the teeming mass of camels. They shepherded, cursed, screamed, pulled, and cajoled, trying to gather up clusters of the animals and get them moving uphill. At first they had no luck. All was confusion and the camels didn’t know which way to go. But the massive noise in the valley was tapering off considerably, and the camels, regaining some of their composure, started responding to their voices. As the men gathered reins and got one or two of them moving, some of the others followed along.
Paul was the farthest to the east, working alone. He had gone down the hill in an arc rather than straight as the others had. The camels provided plenty of protection as he worked. He was careful to keep them between himself and the Tuareg.
Gathering as many precious reins as he could hold in one hand, he used his rifle as a prod, too roughly at first, so that one of the animals bolted, then more gently, beginning to walk and tap flanks, first right, then left, until he got two going the right way, then four, and before long others were carried along in the sweep, the animals finding a calming influence in the pack.
Paul soon found himself in the midst of fifteen camels, stunned to find them actually going in the direction he wanted. He kept talking, swatting, prodding, persuading, every so often half running in a crouch, bending to peer through the forest of legs to get his bearings. The first time he did it all he saw was camel legs and rock. The second time he nearly shouted in glee. He could see the tirailleurs, covered by El Madani, beginning to make their way up the hill with at least fifty camels among them. Best of all, he didn’t see any Tuareg.
As he was straightening up, one of the camels he was leading bolted, and he lost his grip on the reins he held. The camels stopped, stared arrogantly at him, then turned and trotted in the other direction. Paul cursed and ran back after them, trying to keep his voice calm as he did so as not to frighten them. Eventually he had three of them, but gave up on the last when he turned and saw that a group of Tuareg forty yards away had spotted him and were running in his direction.
Adrenaline racing, Paul tugged the camels along as fast as he could until
he found his way back into the larger pack of animals, who had simply come to a standstill where he’d left them. Once again he had to get them moving in the right direction, a task complicated by their lost momentum and the fact that he had to keep looking for blue robes. Over and over again he heard the reassuring crack of Madani’s Gras rifle, but had no idea where the man was shooting. He looked under the legs again, to his right, concerned because he didn’t see any blue. They should have been on him by now. He kept low, always prodding, glad for the cover of the animals but frustrated by the blindness they brought.
And then he heard voices and knew. He had been too long getting the strays. The Tuareg had had time to cut him off from Madani’s position, and had simply run in front of the pack he was driving. They were turning the animals aside and standing there, waiting for him, their swords drawn.
* * *
A grin creased El Madani’s lined, dusty face as he squinted and fired. They’d nearly done it, w’allahi! The Tuareg couldn’t stop them now. He could just see his men’s legs in the moving herd as they drove their charges uphill.
The Tuareg had stopped firing. El Madani’s weapon made the only noise now. He understood the silence at once, and reveled in it: the Tuareg had run out of ammunition for their ancient weapons, and then for the Gras rifles they’d taken from the victims of the massacre.
El Madani fired carefully, steadily, until the camels and men began pouring over the ridge to his right. Once the four tirailleurs were out of danger he turned his attention to Paul. Between passing heads and humps he could see Paul’s herd, and El Madani caught his breath – there were nearly a dozen Tuareg just in front of the lieutenant’s camels. The Frenchman was isolated, about to die.
El Madani swung his rifle toward Paul’s position and tried to take aim. He cursed. The stream of camels was blocking a clear shot. He’d have to get to the other side before he could help. He jumped to his feet and dashed forward, ducking his head, shoving with his rifle, trying to move quickly, but it was impossible. The camels were crowded closely together, four and five abreast, heads to hindquarters, hurriedly obliging the shouts of the tirailleurs trying to keep them moving. El Madani had just gotten into the stream when he tripped over a leg and fell painfully to his knees. He struggled to get to his feet but fell again, bumped and shoved and half carried along by the swiftly moving flow of camels, his frustration mounting by the second. There was no time! Enraged, he hit out at the beasts, cursing them, trying to make himself a little space so he could get up and keep moving. He shouted desperately, hoping his tirailleurs would hear.
“The lieutenant!” he screamed. “Help the lieutenant!”
* * *
The instant Paul realized the situation he was in, he felt the warm flush of fear. “Jesus,” he whispered, eyes wide, mind racing. There were at best six or seven camels between him and the waiting Tuareg, only seconds until his cover was gone. He had run out of time.
Still in a crouch, he let go of the reins of the camels following behind him, and drew his pistol from its holster. He peered between the legs before him, for the timing. Four camels, three… now!
Clutching his rifle tightly, he stood erect. Thrusting with all his might, he jammed his rifle barrel hard at the anus of the camel just in front of him. With a shriek of pain, the animal shot forward into the Tuareg, knocking four of them down, then tripping itself on one’s robes, and falling heavily onto two more. Paul fired his pistol into the air and screamed as loudly as he could. The other camels bolted at the eruption, straight for the Tuareg.
The surprise all his but his cover now gone, Paul ran for his life. He went straight to his left, his eyes scanning the rocks for shelter. If he could get into the big pillars at the east end, maybe he could work his way back up toward El Madani. It was his only chance. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw a confusion of animals and blue – and four Tuareg, hard after him, less than fifteen meters away. He had more than a hundred to go before he reached the pillars. He swore. Where was El Madani? His rifle had fallen silent. There was no time to turn and fire. He might hit one or two, but then the others would be on him.
His boots gave him an advantage over the Tuareg. They were at home in these mountains, but he wore no robes or sandals to slow him down. He concentrated on the course before him. If he tripped, he would die. If he slowed, he would die. If El Madani didn’t help soon, he would die. So many ways to die, but his flight brought him an odd sense of exhilaration, and he knew he wasn’t going to die, he was going to reach cover, he was going to live, he knew it, watching the rocks and forcing more speed, and his feet fairly flew on the wings of his will.
* * *
Near despair, El Madani pushed his way through the last of the camels and was out the other side. Moving faster than he had known he could, he ran forward and threw himself on his stomach to a prone position just behind the edge of the ridge. Propping himself on his elbows, his rifle swinging toward where he’d last seen Paul, El Madani took in the scene below. Somehow the lieutenant had broken away and was running for the east end of the canyon, a group of Tuareg close behind him.
The old warrior steadied himself, took aim, and began firing.
The other tirailleurs who had brought the camels up the hill heard El Madani resume firing, and turned to look downhill – toward their own pursuers. Out of breath, nearly exhausted, they knew they had to deal with the Tuareg below, who had advanced up the hill to within thirty meters of their position. Automatically, the tirailleurs spread out in a line and began firing.
Once atop the ridge, the camels were packed together, with little room to move. The slopes were precipitous in every direction. The trail on which they had arrived from base camp was treacherous, winding, and steep. To the animals it was no trail at all – just an abrupt drop, like the rest. There were almost sixty of them, a great milling mass that had lost the trail. When the roar of rifle fire erupted and rekindled some of their earlier panic, the fear spread through them.
Intent on the Tuareg below, the tirailleurs weren’t paying attention. At the outer edge, away from the well, two camels precariously close to the slope lost their footing and fell down a steep incline, bellowing as they went. The camels closest to them reared back in fright, trying to find flatter ground, pushing those behind them in wild-eyed fear. The motion spread through the entire skittish group like a wave, intensified by the deafening noise of the rifles.
It was enough. An animal closest to the well was crowded from behind, and took off back down the hill, toward the well. Instantly others followed, and then more, and then in a flood they were all gone. Too late, the tirailleurs jumped up. They watched helplessly as all they had worked for, all they had risked, fled back down the hill. Short of running right into the midst of the Tuareg below, there was nothing they could do.
El Madani heard the noise but didn’t look. He was firing at Paul’s hunters. He hit one, but the shot was lucky – they were distant, running away from him and after their quarry, their retreating figures bobbing erratically as they dashed between the rocks. Again and again El Madani fired, again and again in vain. He saw Paul nearing the rock columns at the east end. The boy seemed fleet as a gazelle and had widened the distance between himself and the Tuareg, but to El Madani what he was running into looked like a dead-end trap of rock.
But Paul kept straight on and disappeared into the pillars. Cocking, firing, cocking, firing, El Madani pursued his three targets relentlessly, but with each second his hope dwindled, and then it died. They too were gone, swallowed by the rocks.
El Madani laid down his rifle and wiped the sweat from his brow. Dejected, he sat up and looked over his shoulder toward the ridge. The noise he’d half-heard became a clamor in his head. He couldn’t believe his eyes and felt a blinding rage within. Down the hill, the Tuareg were administering the coup de grâce to his chances of survival. They had the camels again!
El Madani grabbed his rifle and raised it once again, to shoot as many of the departing
animals as he could, to at least deprive the Tuareg of them. But he stopped himself. It would be a meaningless gesture, the second slaughter of the day. They were gone. His shoulders sagged. He set down his rifle.
Then another thought occurred to him. He gazed at the retreating camels, scanning them quickly. And then he saw it, and for the first time that day allowed himself to feel total defeat. It was just a little thing, he knew, an almost pathetic concern on this day of so much death.
Near the rear of the retreating camels, caught up with the rest, was Paul’s mehari. El Madani knew it by its saddle and by the bag on its side. The bag with Floop inside.
* * *
Paul could neither see nor hear theTuareg behind him, but he felt their deadly presence like a lance at his back, pushing, goading, terrorizing him to greater speeds than he’d ever run before.
He would not die that way!
The thought consumed him, drove him, fueled the fire of his passion to get away. He dared not look back. The rocks at his feet thumped and clattered, grated and gave as he fled up the valley. In every stone there was a hazard, in every hazard he saw the arm, that horrible, lonely arm, twisting and twirling through the air, clutching an empty rifle.
He would not die like Remy!
He didn’t slow his pace when he reached the cover of rocks. He weaved and raced through the columns, each moment expecting to lose his running room and be trapped, but each time seeing yet another passage between more pillars. His eyes moved quickly as he ran. He had entered what appeared to be a continuing canyon, filled with great volcanic pillars and spires that had obscured the entrance and even now made a view of the whole canyon impossible. It was an eerie place, swallowed in silence, the sunlight catching the shiny tops of the monoliths, reflecting down onto the sandy floor into soft pools of light through which he fled. The pillars were like some massive petrified forest of trees whose dark gray bark was sculpted in spirals of swirling layers winding dizzily to their tops. Between them grew sporadic acacia trees and scattered bunches of grasses. Butterflies flitted softly in the stillness, their large colorful wings glowing iridescently in the mirrored light of the sun.
Empires of Sand Page 52