Karim shifted on his hassock, glancing about the room and feeling even more uneasy as four other elders nodded in agreement. Though he would one day inherit the title of Grand Sanusi and leader of the council from his father, it was considered improper for him to speak when the elders were gathered. Instead it was his place to be silent and to learn from them. Such was the custom of his people, but while he did not speak, a dark look of concern tune into his alert eyes.
It was an expression not missed by Sadi Assar, who did not show the disapproval he felt. He had hoped to convince the Grand Sanusi immediately of his plan, thus demonstrating to the rest of the council his influence. But now he could see that Karim would object although each man here knew the heir himself to be half-white, and therefore the opinion untrustworthy. Already some here feared the succession of Karim al-Sharif, particularly during a time, when the whites were their greatest threat. Could one of white blood be expected to act strongly against those of his own kin, they had asked.
Now Assar stared coldly at Karim al-Sharif before turning to the Grand Sanusi. "Perhaps the son of Hamid al-Sharif wishes to speak?" he asked sarcastically. "In his youth perhaps he thinks his wisdom greater than those who have lived longer."
All eyes turned to Karim who suddenly felt more acutely half-white than ever before. He knew that because of his blood his judgments would be questionable in this matter. Yet remembering again his promise to his mother, Karim cleared his throat, and looked directly at Assar.
"The honorable Assar will please forgive my intrusion into the council and accept my gratitude for an opportunity to speak. I put a simple suggestion before my elders. Since it is the English who have destroyed the well, let them be the ones who rebuild it."
Assar looked startled as Karim continued. "If we kill the English, we still have no water. It has already been said that the whites have tools of which we have no knowledge. With these tools perhaps the well can be repaired. Do not the white men need water as much as we?"
The eyes of both Hashad Babir Rasoun and Ben Sadi Assar were piercing as Assar spoke. "And what of honor? You want to negotiate with these white dogs? The son of Hamid al-Sharif would let this unholy desecration of the well, an act forbidden by Allah, go unanswered? And if honor is of no concern, then what do you say about their diseases?"
Assar finished glowering. Keeping his face politely masked, Karim wondered at the unreasoning of these elders. Perhaps it was his "white side" that made him hesitate to kill the English and of course his promise. But couldn't they see that a slaughter of these men would gain nothing but a transient satisfaction-a pointless revenge? He faced Assar squarely.
"Since this disease has already spread among our people it will continue to spread whether or not we kill the English. But isn't it known that the white men who bring disease also often bring the means to cure it? Let the white, men repair the waterhole with the tools that we have not. And when this is done, let them give us medicine to cure the red spots. Then they will be made to go in peace from our land."
Outraged, the chiefs Assar and Rasoun seemed to rise as one toward the younger man. "By Allah!" Rasoun began before a gesture from the chief Ali Ben Zadi silenced him and made him sit back on his hassock.
Ali Ben Zadi shook his head so his gray beard wagged at them. His heavily lined eyes squinted to sharp points as slowly he gazed round the circle of men. Then with the dignity befitting the eldest member of the council, Ali Ben Zadi said, "The son of Hamid al-Sharif has wisdom in his words. Do none of you believe it is better to drink than to
kill? The white infidels have wronged the tribe of Assar as they have many others. But when a camel yields milk, one does not slaughter it for its meat. How is it wise to kill the
English when it is they who can best repair the damage? How is it wise to kill the English when it is they who can I care our sons of this treacherous disease? I give my support to the plan of Karim al-Sharif."
Karim felt a constriction in his chest relax. To have the support of the most revered of the council was a good sign. But it was when he saw a look on his father's face that told him he had won that his breath came easier. His promise would be fulfilled.
There was little more debate, Assar and Rasoun being unwilling to publicly side against both the son of their leader and Ali Ben Zadi. So a decision was made to negotiate with the whites first for medicine and repair of the well before any further measures were taken.
The following morning, the sheik, Assar, Karim, and a complement of warriors all rode directly to Sevit where they entered the white men's fort, their faces expressionless, their silver decorated rifles unsung and flashing in the intense sun fight.
They were greeted in faltering Arabic by one soldier while others looked on, then Karim addressed the Englishman in his language, asking to see his captain. A few onlookers murmured with surprise at this Arab's unaccented command of their language. The soldier nodded curtly and asked, "Who should I tell him is here?"
"My name is Karim al-Sharif. I speak for my father, Hamid al-Sharif,"
"I'll inform Captain Clayton," the soldier replied.
And turning to face around in a neat spin, he marched in the opposite direction, shouldering aside a heavy rug that hung suspended over a doorway in the crumbling mud brick wall.
As they waited, Karim noticed the suspicious way the English soldiers eyed them, and the equally suspicious way his own warriors had their rifles plainly visible, the butt ends resting on the pommels of their saddles, the muzzles pointing upward, their fingers only a fraction of a second from the trigger.
Minutes ticked by as they waited. The sun beat down unmercifully, and the horses had begun pawing the soft earth before finally footsteps were heard approaching from behind the rug.
The soldier appeared again with another, heavier, man in his wake-apparently Captain Clayton, hair grayed at the temples and gold patches decorating the shoulders of his tight-fitting white shirt. His eyes were most striking of all, large and deeply blue so they seemed almost violet. But besides being more beautiful than any man's eyes Karim had ever seen, it pleased him that they were clear and straightforward, the eyes of an honest man.
The first soldier indicated Karim, saying, "That one, sir."
Captain Clayton walked to Karim's horse and paused. "I'm told you asked to speak to me, young man," Captain Clayton said in a polite tone.
But Karim's equally polite reply was stopped just as it was begun when an Englishman with smaller gold patches on his shoulder pointed to one of Assar's warriors and shouted, "It's him, by God-the one who led the raid on the supplies. Thieving nigger!" And waving his hand to another soldier he shouted, "Sergeant Danover, arrest this man!"
Somehow the shooting started. It happened so quickly Karim never knew exactly who began it, but suddenly the warrior beside him was blasted off his horse, and Karim found the Englishmen's rifles lowering to point at him.
All hope for negotiation vanished, and governed by his instinct to survive, Karim raised his own rifle, quickly took aim, and fired before whirling his horse and shouting to the others to take cover. They were immediately pinned down by English fire.
For several minutes it seemed hopeless. But then Karim heard the battle cry of the Assar tribe, which had been waiting beyond the dunes, and now he silently praised Allah as he watched his Arab brother’s charge toward the fortress wall in a wave of flying robes and dust and plunging horses, firing as they yelled "Allahu akbar, God is great!"
Looking, from behind the wagon, Karim blessed the attacking warriors even as he cursed his own stupidity for trusting the whites. What a fool he had been, even instructing his men not to wear their normal amounts of ammunition lest they alarm these English.
Bending over his rifle, Karim fired carefully, making sure each bullet found its mark. One soldier fell, and then another, and a third plummeted from the wall overhead before a shout made Karim turn round to see his father, who, having apparently run out of ammunition, was engaged in hand-t
o-hand combat with two soldiers.
Scrambling to the sheik's assistance, Karim had just thrust his dagger into the back of one soldier when a new sound of rapid rifle fire dominated the din, and raising his eyes to the top corner of the fortress wall, he paused, astonished to see a gun such as he had never seen before, a gun mounted on three legs that could swivel to point in any direction while firing continuously.
The sheik and all the men were staring at this ominous machine, watching as it pointed over the fortress wall and down onto the charging Assar warriors who were instantly mown down like dry grass in the wind-men and horses suddenly squirming on the sand like smashed beetles.
Then the gun was turning again, and this time pointing down upon them, its bullets shattering their wagon barrier to splinters and hitting anything in its path as its rain of bullets moved toward the sheik.
Looking for a way of escape, Karim's eyes turned to the fortress gates and, seeing them closed and latched, he realized they must be opened or they were trapped. He shouted to his father. Then flinging himself on a horse, he charged for it, bullets splattering around him.
Reaching the barrier then, he leaned down to unfasten it. A bullet careened past his ear, burning a hole in the wooden gate. Another struck beside it, and another before his horse suddenly spun and heaved and, jerking forward, collapsed. In a desperate leap, Karim jumped clear of the horse. Then lightning flashed in a shower of hot fire and all was dark.
Chapter 12
Where was he? Karim's head throbbed as he opened his eyes, momentarily blinded by the dusty streamers of light that pierced through the niches in the rock wall surround¬ing him.
He was in a cell-taken prisoner. That much at least was clear, and clenching his jaw against the pain that soared up his neck to hammer his forehead, Karim rose until he could peer through one of the largest cracks between the rocks. He found himself looking directly into the open area in the center of the fort where, only that morning, he had ridden in, so naive and full of optimism. What had happened to the others-and his father?
Rumbling sounds seemed to come from within his skull. But as consciousness emerged, rising slowly from a deep chasm, he realized it was the sharp beat of a drum and the stamping of boots as soldiers began marching past his cell in flashes of leather and rifles and uniforms.
Jumbled thoughts chased about in his brain, and looking toward a figure at the far end of the open space, Karim's brain finally focused on a single question. Was it possible that figure was his father-hands tied behind his back, face streaked with blood, standing alone facing the soldiers who made a sharp mechanical turn to form a line opposite him?
Yes, his father-impossible as it was, his lips making a taut line as he refused a blindfold with a jerk of his imperial head, his eyes straight forward, his expression unmoved.
At one side of the line of soldiers, Captain Clayton stood violet eyes hard as he raised a sword in salute and the drum began a continuous roll like the pelt of heavy rain against the roofs of El Abadan.
"Ready!" Captain Clayton's voice was clipped.
In a snappy motion the soldiers all brought their rifles chest high and paused. Together the rifle barrels were leveled at the sheik, who remained motionless, his feet wide astride.
Then Clayton's raised sword fell. "Fire!"
The rifles blasted with a deafening roar, throwing the sheik backward, and drowning out a strangled "No!" that cracked in Karim's throat as he clawed his way up the rock wall until he stood looking out the barred cell window.
His father lay sprawled in the dirt, in a pool of spreading crimson, his chest a gaping hole. An iron fist shackled Karim's soul with guilt as he blankly realized it was he who was responsible, he who had trusted the whites, who had led his father, scantily armed, into their camp. And they had killed him-the Sheik of El Abadan, the richest, most powerful leader in the entire desert murdered him!
The soldiers lowered their rifles, and placing a toe of one boot at the heel of the other, together they spun neatly round, marching off to the count of "Hut! ... Hut! ... Hut!"
Then two additional men came into view drawing a cart already half filled with manure. They stopped beside the sheik's form, one man reaching for his feet, and the other his arms, to sling his body onto the top of the manure pile. Then brushing their hands free of dust, they hauled the cart beyond the fortress gates.
Impotent rage filled Karim's chest until it hurt to breathe. Curses came to mind, but none terrible enough to match his fury. As long as he lived, he would remember, and he would hate and by Allah, he would have his revenge!
The sun shone fierce and blinding so the agony in Karim's head made him reel as hot tears poured out of his eyes and down his neck. Then letting himself fall face down on the dirty floor, he pounded his fist into the dust and cried.
Had Karim but known it, his father's execution had not been an action lightly taken, but rather one carefully carried out with calculated risk. Captain George Clayton wasn't a man given to rash actions of any kind, but he had a job to do and he was a man who prided himself on accomplishing the task before him.
Months ago he had been sent to the Sahara by order of Queen Victoria herself, to explore, to map, to maintain an outpost, and most of all, to dominate those rich trade routes considered ripe for English investments.
So far his task had not been an easy one. The journey had been arduous, the previous maps largely inaccurate, those sheiks with whom he was to bargain for dominance of the trade routes elusive. And now his patience had been tried to the limit by the constant thievery of their already short supplies, by a lack of grass and water for his horses and food for his men. Also, to make matters worse, Captain Clayton had seen his soldiers, one by one, stricken by a fever resembling measles that he could only imagine was some kind of native pox, whose debilitating effects had spread through the ranks, further weakening his tenuous hold on the small fort.
It was an intolerable position, one that had to be rectified. Neither their food nor their medical supplies could stand any more thieveries, while these Arabs were getting more daring every day. Yes, Clayton had told himself, the situation was steadily worsening. He must make some show of strength now. These Arabs had to be given a lesson.
So Captain Clayton had done his duty. He had executed the leader of what he had been assured were bandits (one of whom having been positively identified by his own lieutenant). And it was only afterward that he thought again of the young English-speaking Arab, and hearing he had been taken prisoner, went to see him.
Captain Clayton found the young Arab sitting on the floor of his cell, the look in his dark impenetrable eyes as dangerous as a viper's. He couldn't have been more than twenty, yet his face had the hard glittering coldness of a much older man. Yes, and there was something else curious about him, too, something that stood out beyond his fiercesome looks and flexing jaw. Indeed, Clayton thought, he was as light-skinned as many of his own men, and his features seemed, well, almost white. And where did he learn his excellent English?
But Captain Clayton's questions were to remain unanswered since he had not time to speak, only time to regret entering the young Arab's cell alone when the lad leaped upon him like a giant cat, knocking him to the floor and sliding a knife expertly between his ribs.
In the gathering clouds of unconsciousness, the last Clayton knew was 'the sound of his own inadequate thrashing, of the cell door clanging open, and of the guard's voice saying, "My God! He's killing' the captain!"
Karim cried out with frustration as two frantic guards, pulled him off his prey. The makeshift knife fashioned from a metal plate had slipped and the English captain was left alive. Karim continued to struggle, but then a white hot pain shot through his head, his legs crumbled, and his cheek hit the floor, and everything vanished.
When Karim came to, it was the following day. He didn't know how long he had been unconscious, but sniffing the wind, he knew a storm was brewing. And that night, when it came, bringing a blinding swirl
of sand that shrouded the desert and forced the English to take shelter, he saw his chance for escape.
Like the mourning cries of desert spirits, the wind howled and, under the cover of this eerie wail, the English never heard the lock of Karim's cell burst under the impact of a loose stone from his cell wall or the guard's call for help before being rendered unconscious.
Under cover of the Dying sand Karim secured a mount from the stables and disappeared into the open desert, where only a native would dare venture and only a fool would follow. The next morning even the hoof prints of his stolen horse had been obliterated.
It took Karim five days to reach El Abadan, his skin almost black from sun, his heart filled with a new bitter hatred. He was taken directly to his harem, where he was revived and where he remained recovering for several more, days, still unaware of the final, horrible truth.
And it was only when he was strong again, that haltingly, salaaming until their faces touched the floor, his ministers told him his mother had died, abruptly, ten days before from the ravages of the white man's red-spotted fever.
Desert Hostage Page 7