Desert Hostage

by Diane Dunaway

  Juliette sat up, propping her elbows behind her in the sand. "I am the English woman," she began in faltering Arabic. "I am Sharif's . . . your sayyid's woman."

  They laughed. One of them roughly grabbed her robe about the neckline and jerked her face so close she gagged from the stench of his breath.

  "Karim al-Sharif. I spit on his name," he snapped in a voice that cut like a whiplash. "We are Hussar, foolish woman."

  Juliette's terrified eyes grew even larger. Of course Hussar-spies dressed as Sharif's men. They had been observing the camp, signaling the attack! Again Juliette looked from one face to another, cold sweat beading her forehead and dripping from her underarms.

  In a burst of strength she lunged, breaking the Arab's grasp and dashing away as she suddenly heard a volley of rifle shots from the direction of camp.

  Hussar had attacked. Even now Sharif and Rashid, and the women and all the rest were being slaughtered! She ran with all her strength, but the Arabs were right behind her. Her ankles were grasped and held so she fell face down into the sand.

  As she turned over, a weight fell upon her. It was the same Arab who had so brutally killed the mare now pinning her down, his lips drawn back in a kind of smile, his front teeth missing, and his hands, like fat insects, sliding under her robes and crawling over her flesh. Then his mouth opened in an of delight as, holding the tip of his tongue between his thick lips, he squeezed her nipples between thumb and fingers.

  Gulping for breath, Juliette fought harder. They were all over her now, all of them, their rough hands on her breasts and legs even before a ripping sound came and her pants were jerked off.

  She screamed again, wildly flinging arms that were captured and pinned over her head as a foul-smelling rag was stuffed into her mouth. A blow to her forehead made the world reel with flashing lights, and colors, and there was a vague awareness of fingers and hands everywhere and a pounding at her temples that drowned out moans she dimly recognized as her own.

  Brutally her legs were pulled apart and held as a weight crushed her. Black clouds and dots of light swam in her head, blurring everything. There was an explosion then, followed by others as her befuddled brain fought for consciousness. The weight was removed and her face slapped and she knew the sensation of water running into her eyes and nose and mouth.

  She sputtered, and the light returned, making shapes in the darkness. A hand took her robe that hung in tatters from her neck and she was pulled up like a rag toy before being hurled onto the back of a horse.

  Her bare legs clung to the skittish animal as, in a flying leap, the beast plunged away, scattering a spray of sand over five motionless forms left in its wake. Instinctively, Juliette's arms circled Sharif's waist like a child grasping a rock of support in a careening world.

  He was alive when she had thought him dead, and just knowing this somehow gave her a soaring feeling that there was not time to explore as rifle fire behind them made her turn.

  There were more men galloping hard after them now, their white robes billowing, their rifles leveled and taking aim.

  Sharif turned too, dropping the reins and controlling the charging horse with his knees as he raised his rifle to fire past her at the men. The explosions were deafening but, clinging tighter to his waist, Juliette saw one man after another fall while those remaining returned his fire in short bursts of flame exploding orange against the night sky.

  Bullets pelted the sand around them. The stallion raced on. Then in a whirl of gunfire and shouting and the stench of gunpowder, they charged up the last dune into camp.

  Sharif's warriors were dashing about, reinforcing the piled supplies that served to block the Hussar's bullets.

  Fadjar plunged to a halt near the center of the makeshift fortress and it was Rashid himself who lifted her to the ground, quickly wrapping her in a blanket. Rapid Arabic was exchanged over her head before Sharif's eyes were suddenly on her as he spoke French.

  "Go to Cassia," he was saying. "She has been calling for you."

  And that was all before spurring his horse into the fray, rallying his men to what seemed an impossible defense.

  "Cassia?" Juliette questioned turning to Rashid.

  Wasn't she dead? What could he mean? But Rashid did not disclaim the remark and, bending double to avoid the rain of fire overhead, he led her across camp to a quickly erected defense of piled supply packs from where numbers of men were firing steadily.

  Between saddles and more piled packs, Cassia was lying, alive-but looking nearly dead as she rolled her head from side to side and moaned softly.

  "Cassia," Juliette said. "Cassia, it's me. What has happened? What have they done?"

  The girl's eyelids opened slowly halfway and there was recognition and a faint smile.

  "Madame," she whispered hoarsely. "You have come."

  "But Cassia-I thought you were dead! I thought that your brother . . . "

  "No . . . no, madame." Weakly Cassia squeezed her hand. "Did not the master tell you?

  He bought me from Rafik. I am to be your slave now. I was filled with joy when I was told. But it was then the pains began."

  "But why are you bleeding?" Juliette persisted. "Are you wounded? Where are you hurt? Let me see."

  The girl shook her head and the wan smile came again. "Madame does not understand. It is the child being born too soon. For hours I have pain, and now there is only blood. I am dying, madame. It is Allah's will. Now I will not disgrace my family." Cassia's eyes opened larger. "But I am so frightened. I have sinned, and now I will burn forever in the fires of damnation."

  Juliette patted Cassia's small brown hand. "You are not going to die, Cassia. Don't even think it! And you certainly are not going to hell. I don't believe you really sin unless you want to. And what happened was against your will. It's those creatures who attacked you that are damned if anyone is. Your God doesn't damn the innocent, does he? I'm sure he understands."

  A bullet singing close overhead interrupted her and behind them a shout turned to a liquid rattle. Juliette ducked her head, peering between ammunition boxes. On one side of camp the Hussar had broken through the piled boxes and packs and, through the smoke of rifles, Juliette saw Sharif charging into the oncoming Hussar with Rashid at his back.

  In the close combat a scimitar replaced his rifle, and Sharif swung the curved blade in circles, cleaving the white-turbaned men as they came until a semicircle of bodies were forming beneath Fadjar's high-stepping hooves.

  More of Sharif s men joined him, and the attack was beaten back until no more Hussar charged through the opening, which was once again blocked, and Juliette heard victorious yells from the warriors as Sharif spurred his horse to the other side of camp, making an easy target above the others.

  A volley of bullets whizzed overhead, hitting a man nearby, who made no sound as he dropped his gun before hunching over to hold his bloody arm. Automatically Juliette rose to his side. Always before, Sharif's warriors had frightened her and she had never considered touching one. But now, bound together by a common enemy, things seemed abruptly quite different.

  She examined the wound and, even in the dim light, she could see the bullet had gone completely through the arm. So tearing what remained of the sleeves of her robe, Juliette tied off the limb so that the bleeding slowed and pooled and finally stopped as around them the battle continued to rage.

  There was gratitude, if not worship, in the man's brown eyes as he salaamed and spoke words of thanks that touched Juliette in a way she had not expected. Close by, three women bent their heads, their hands holding their mouths to stifle screams.

  Seeing them, Juliette called them in Arabic, motioning them to her just as another man nearby abruptly spun around and fell into the sand. The women came and, together, they half dragged the man behind a shelter of crates. And with the women hovering beside her, Juliette ripped his pants to reveal a gash on his thigh nearly to the bone.

  "Look," Juliette said in Arabic. "You must press here and the blood do
es not come. All of you must do this so these men will not die."

  As she demonstrated, pressing hard on the artery until the spurting blood trickled then stopped, the women's eyes grew larger and they nodded with understanding. She knew from Cassia that most of them had lived inside the harems of Tripoli and were "presents" from the governor to many of Sharif's men. They were terrified by the desert's hostility, having never seen violence like this. But, now they seemed willing to help and watched her movements carefully.

  Another wounded man stumbled and fell on the sand and again the women looked over her shoulder as Juliette tore away his shirt. But already it was too late, and Juliette tried to control the wrenching in her stomach as she saw the gaping hole in his chest and realized from his open eyes that he was already dead.

  Juliette shook her head and motioned the women to help another man while she turned her attention back to Cassia.

  From watching the cook at Miss Fayton’s tending the wounds of gardeners and workmen, she had learned basic first aid. But Cassia's miscarriage was beyond her knowledge and in spite of all her brave assurances to the girl, if the hemorrhaging did not stop . . . well, she would try not to think of that now. If the Hussar couldn't be thrown back, it wouldn't make any difference, they would all die one way or another.

  For the next hour the battle continued while Juliette tended the wounded, directing the women who unquestioningly obeyed.

  From somewhere she heard "Allahu akbar," which Juliette could translate as "God is great," and knew it to be a triumphant battle cry.

  She bent lower, covering Cassia's body with her own as another round of bullets sang overhead. But what did God have to do with this sort of killing? She asked herself. What did God ever have to do with men murdering men, no matter what the cause? And yet wasn't it true that inevitably God was always used to justify it?

  She peered again over the crates and packs surrounding her. Now there was more shouting, but to her surprise and sudden relief, it was Sharif's men swarming out from behind their own defenses to chase the Hussar back into the desert. "Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar!"

  Then, except for a few last shots fired at the routed Hussar, there was no more shooting and now only the moans of the wounded remained. As abruptly as it all began, it was over and, as the dust settled, Juliette's gaze searched among the collapsed tents and scattered packs before realizing that unconsciously she was searching for Sharif.

  Always before he had been clearly visible, galloping up and down the lines of men. But now he was not to be seen and, when Juliette spotted Fadjar rider less and grazing on a scrubby bush a short distance from camp, she felt a cold sinking in the depths of her stomach as she stood up abruptly.

  He had been such an easy target on horseback! Always above the others and he had been so reckless. Heading across the camp in quick steps, her eyes cast furtively among the fallen weapons and broken sacks and supplies and scattered bodies wounded or dead.

  Was Sharif somewhere like this? She asked herself, taking a closer look at each one of the bodies. It seemed impossible, inconceivable that such a man could be . . . could be . . . Her mind paused, refusing to think further while her heart beat wildly. Her steps quickened and she dashed about aimlessly, hardly seeing where she was going when she ran against a tall figure, and, looking up, realized it was Rashid.

  Her wide searching eyes bright, Juliette wasted no time on either dignity or formality. Her fingers gripped the older man's sleeve. "Rashid! The master? Is he wounded? Where is he?"

  Rashid's eyes studied her, a knowing expression emerging as he said, "Yes, madame. He is wounded." Rashid raised a long sinewy arm to point across camp. "The mas¬ter is there, madame."

  Juliette did not wait to hear more, but dashed in that direction, her feet flying, her heart filling her throat as a voice within repeated the same prayer over and over, "Please God, don't let him be dead! Please, in the name of . . . of . . . Allah. Don't let him die!"

  Then rounding the corner of a pile of camel packs, Juliette stopped short, feeling at once ridiculous. He was there, a short distance away, sitting on a bundle and even smiling at the Arab woman who was deftly attending tending his bared upper arm for what seemed a minor wound.

  Of course he wasn't dead, she told herself defiantly. Yet, as she stood watching, she could not deny her overpowering emotions or trembling hands that only a short time before had calmly tended the others.

  It is just that I'm grateful to him for saving my life, she told herself, hoping that he had not seen her. She headed back toward Cassia then, and looking up at the horizon, noticed there was a pink glow in the east that signaled the approaching dawn.

  .

  PART X

  THE HUNT

  Chapter 61

  Two hours after dawn, the dead were buried with the most violent display of grief Juliette had ever witnessed. The women screamed and cried, tearing at their hair and clawing their faces while the men stood by, tears running down their cheeks, and declared oaths of vengeance, brandishing their rifles in the air.

  It was only after the bodies were finally covered over in sand that attention could be given to the practical consideration of their own survival. Feeling stiff and sore and not quite sick yet not well, Juliette found the women once again around her, still dabbing at their eyes as they salaamed, calling her madame and obviously awaiting instructions.

  Juliette glanced around them at the scattered packs, the broken bundles, and torn tents. She noticed that already some of the men were retrieving the few animals remaining alive and it seemed obvious to Juliette that food must be their first consideration. So motioning to Fatima and Karile to come, she asked them to gather together into one place all the food that was still edible.

  At her side Tasifa was speaking to her in rapid Arabic and Juliette's attention was drawn to her next as the other two hurried away.

  "What did you say?" Juliette asked in Arabic. "Speak slower."

  "The tents, madame. What shall we do? Most of them are ruined and will give no cover from rain or blowing sand."

  Juliette looked at the remnants of the tents that Tasifa had brought to show her. There were the stakes of one, the ropes of another, all still intact. But no whole canvas or skins remained. Her brow puckered as she thought before saying, "Go about the camp and gather all that remains of any of the tents. Perhaps parts of many can be made into a single whole tent."

  "Yes, madame."

  The girl salaamed before leaving on the assignment, carefully holding up the hem of her own robe that was severely torn and was dragging on the ground. Juliette turned back to Fatima and Karile who were already stacking the remainder of food before her, and it was not difficult to see they had almost nothing left.

  Juliette sighed and ordered these scant rations packed together so a few animals could carry what remained while at the same time she asked herself how so many were to survive on so little. Moments passed until she felt a sense of eyes upon her and, raising her head, she was surprised to find Sharif watching her from over the heads of his gathering men, an odd look on his face that made Juliette realize he had been watching her for a long time.

  Without knowing why, Juliette felt herself blush and, not wanting him to see how, even now his perusal affected her, she turned away, retreating to where Cassia still lay between the piled crates.

  As she bent and examined the Arab girl, Juliette discovered that the bleeding had miraculously stopped, though her pulse was weak and her skin hot to touch. Earlier Juliette had been rationed a small water skin and now she unsung her precious supply, pouring some onto a cloth and dabbing Cassia's face before placing it across her forehead.

  "That may be the last water you see for days, Cherie. Such self-sacrifice hardly suits you."

  Juliette started before turning to find Sharif standing behind her, his hands on his hips in a ridiculing swagger. What does he think he knows about self-sacrifice? She thought, biting back the words. Her eyes stung. She had wanted their reunion
to be different than this. He had risked his own life to save hers, and it seemed she should thank him and apologize for what she had thought about Cassia. But now his barbed words made her gratitude stick unuttered in her throat and she only glanced up into his critical countenance for a serious moment before turning back to Cassia, hoping he would simply go away.

  But he didn't, and, in a moment said, "I thought I'd seen all manner of stupidity among women. But you, madame, have displayed a completely new dimension. Even if the Hussar hadn't found you, other bandits would have, and if not them, then the sun, since you didn't even bother to take a water sack. I imagined your adventure in Tripoli taught you something. But it appears your intelligence does not take easily to facts, however elementary."

  His aloof condemnation, delivered in clipped French, made the hair at the back of Juliette's neck prickle. Whirling, she threw back her head so their eyes met. "What do you care what I do? Wouldn't it be a relief to have me off your hands? Anyway, wasn't your Gypsy wench keeping you occupied? You disgust me!"

  Sharif didn't change expression, but crossed his arms. Then he shook his head and spoke as if to a child. "Do you think I am quite a fool? My spies told me days ago when the Hussar would attack. It was you who nearly exposed everything. When you rode off Rashid wanted to go after you but I stopped him. If the Hussar had seen one of my men armed as he was they would have suspected a trap. And anyway, a woman disobedient as you deserves the consequences!"