Warrisden looked abroad, and in the sunlight his hopes revived. It seemed that it must have been into another town that he had entered last night. Nowhere could he see the gash of a street in that plateau of roof-tops — so narrow they were; and no noise rose at all, they were so deep. Here the only sound audible was the chattering of women’s voices — for the roofs are the playgrounds of the women, and Warrisden could see them in their coloured handkerchiefs and robes clustered together, climbing from one house to another with the help of ladders, visiting their friends. But of all the clamour which must needs be resounding in those crowded streets, not even one stray cry of “Balak!” reached to this upper air. Lower down the hill to the east, Warrisden could see the city wall and the gate through which Stretton must pass when he came. And he might come to-day!
That was Warrisden’s thought. He went down the stairs, had his horse brought into the dark street before the door, and, accompanied by his mehazni, that old soldier who had ridden with him from Tangier, went out of the city over the plain towards Sefru. For through that small town of gardens and fruit at the base of the Atlas spur, Stretton would come. But he did not come on that day, nor on the next. But, on the other hand, Ibrahim, Warrisden’s guide, brought bad news.
He mounted to the roof in the morning, while Warrisden sat there after his breakfast, and crouched down behind the parapet so that he might not be seen. For the men leave the roof-tops to their women-folk, and do not trespass there themselves.
“Sir,” said he, “the road between Djebel Silfat and Djebel Zarbon is cut. Word has come into Fez this morning. The Z’mur have come down from the hills, and sit across the road, stopping and robbing every one.”
Warrisden sat up.
“Are you sure?” he asked. He was, as he knew, in a country of liars. Ibrahim, in addition, was a coward in the country districts, though the best of braggarts at Tangier. He had ridden on his mule slung about with weapons — a Spanish rifle on his back, a revolver in his belt, and a Winchester in his hands; while between the fingers of his left hand he carried ready four cartridges — but he was none the less afraid. However, Warrisden remembered that mountain pass which led from the plain of the Sebou up to Segota. It was very lonely, it was narrow, the road looped perpetually round the bases of the round buttresses of Djebel Silfat. It would certainly be an awkward place wherein to be entrapped.
“Yes, yes, I am sure,” replied Ibrahim, “the Z’mur are bad men. They might capture you and hold you to ransom.”
Warrisden was inclined to discount Ibrahim’s terror of the Z’mur. The lawless deeds of that wild and fanatical tribe had been dinned into his ears ever since he had crossed the Sebou; until he had come to make light of them. But there was no doubt they terrorised the people; in the villages where Warrisden had camped, they were spoken of with a dread hardly less than that which Ibrahim betrayed. It would certainly never do to be taken by the Z’mur. They would be released, no doubt; but time would be wasted. They might be kept for weeks in the forest of Marmura. They would reach Roquebrune too late.
Warrisden had brought with him, as a servant, one of the men who had been with him to Ain-Sefra, and descending the stairs he called him, and spoke, bidding Ibrahim interpret.
“Do you remember the mule which I gave away at Ain-Sefra?” he asked. And the man answered, “Yes!”
“You would know it again?”
The man was sure upon that point. He described the marks by which he would recognise the beast.
“Very well,” said Warrisden. “Go out to the west of Fez, and watch the road to Sefru. If you see a Jew come towards Fez driving the mule, lead him at once to this house. Watch all day until the gate is closed.”
The man went off upon his errand, and Warrisden betook himself to the vice-consulate. On his return he summoned Ibrahim, and said —
We must travel by Mequinez and Mediyah. A letter will be given to us, passing us on from governor to governor. We can reach Larache, travelling hard, in five days. We may find a steamer there for Gibraltar. If not, we must go on, in one more day, to Tangier.
Ibrahim bowed his head and made no further protest. In the evening Warrisden’s servant came back from the gate; his watch had been fruitless. Thus three days had passed. Warrisden became anxious again, and restless. The seven days which Tony Stretton could take, and still reach Roquebrune by the date on which Pamela insisted, were now curtailed. Six days formed the limit, and even that limit implied that the journey should be of the swiftest. Of those six days, three had gone.
The fourth came, and passed. Warrisden rode out upon the track to Sefru in vain. Even the promised letter did not come. Warrisden made inquiries. It would come, he was told. There was no doubt upon that score. But a Government letter takes a long time in the writing in Morocco. It was not until the fifth evening that a messenger from the Palace knocked upon the door. These were the days when Mulai-el-Hassan ruled in Morocco, and was on the march against his rebellious tribes for nine months out of the twelve. Mulai-el-Hassan, at this particular time, was far away to the south in the Sus country, and therefore the mountain pass to the north was dangerous.
Warrisden had his letter, however, sealed with the Viceroy’s seal. But he gazed out over the city as it lay, warm and ruddy in the sunset, and wondered whether it would avail at all. His servant had come back from the gate with his familiar answer. No Jew had driven the mule down the road into Fez that day. And there was only one more day.
Warrisden descended the stairs to the gallery on the first floor, and as he came out upon it, he heard voices in the courtyard below. He looked over the balustrade and saw a man standing amongst his muleteers and servants. Warrisden could not see his face. He was dressed in rags, but the rags were the remnants of a black gabardine, and he wore a black skull-cap upon his head.
It is likely that Warrisden would have taken no further notice of the man, but that he cringed a little in his manner as though he was afraid. Then he spoke in Arabic, and the voice was timorous and apologetic. Warrisden, however, knew it none the less. He leaned over the balustrade —
“Stretton!” he cried out in a burst of joy.
The man in the courtyard looked up. Warrisden would never have known him but for his voice. A ragged beard stubbled his cheeks and chin; he was disfigured with dirt and bruises; he was lean with hunger; his face was drawn and hollow from lack of sleep. But there was something more, a wider difference between this ragged Stretton in the courtyard and the Stretton Warrisden had known than mere looks explained. The man who had looked up when he heard his voice loudly and suddenly pronounced had been startled — nay, more than startled. He had raised an arm as though to ward off a blow. He had shrunk back. He had been afraid. Even now, when he looked at Warrisden, and knew that he was here in a house of safety, he stood drawing deep breaths, and trembling like one who has received a shock. His appearance told Warrisden much of the dangers of the journey from Ain-Sefra through the hills to Fez.
“Yes,” said Tony, “I am here. Am I in time?”
“Just in time,” cried Warrisden. “Oh, but I thought you never would come!”
He ran down the steps into the courtyard.
“Balak!” cried Stretton, with a laugh. “Wait till I have had a bath, and got these clothes burnt.”
In such guise, Tony Stretton came to Fez. He had gone straight to the vice-consulate, and thence had been directed to Warrisden’s house. When, an hour later, he came up on to the gallery and sat down to dinner, he was wearing the clothes of a European, and the look of fear had gone from his face, the servility from his manner. But Warrisden could not forget either the one or the other. Tony Stretton had come through the mountains — yes. But the way had not been smooth.
CHAPTER XXVIII
HOMEWARDS
THE TWO MEN smoked together upon the roof-top afterwards.
“I left a man at the gate all day,” said Warrisden, “to watch the track from Sefru. I had brought him from Algiers. I do not know how he
came to miss you.”
“He could not know me,” said Tony, “and I spoke to no one.”
“But he knew the mule!”
Tony was silent for a little while. Then he said, in a low, grave voice, like a man speaking upon matters which he has no liking to remember —
“The mule was taken from me some days ago in the Ait Yussi country.” And Warrisden upon that said —
“You had trouble, then, upon the way — great trouble.”
Again Tony was slow in the reply. He looked out across the city. It was a night of moonlight, so bright that the stars were pale and small, as though they were withdrawn; there was no cloud anywhere about the sky; and on such a night, in that clear, translucent air, the city, with its upstanding minarets, had a grace and beauty denied to it by day. There was something of enchantment in its aspect, Tony smoked his pipe in silence for a little while. Then he said —
“Let us not talk about it! I never thought that I would be sitting here in Fez to-night. Tell me rather when we start!”
“Early to-morrow,” replied Warrisden. “We must reach Roquebrune in the South of France by the thirty-first.”
Stretton suddenly sat back in his chair.
“Roquebrune! France!” he exclaimed. “We must go there? Why?”
“I do not know,” Warrisden answered. “A telegram reached me at Tangier. I kept it.”
He took the telegram from his pocket and handed it to Stretton, who read it and sat thinking.
“We have time,” said Warrisden, “just time enough, I think, if we travel fast.”
“Good,” said Stretton, as he returned the telegram. “But I was not thinking of the time.”
He did not explain what had caused him to start at the mention of Roquebrune; but after sitting for a little while longer in silence, he betook himself to bed.
Early the next morning they rode out of the Bab Sagma upon the thronged highway over the plain to Mequinez.
The caravans diminished, striking off into this or that track. Very soon there remained with them only one party of five Jews mounted on small donkeys. They began to ride through high shrubs and bushes of fennel over rolling ground. Stretton talked very little, and as the track twisted and circled across the plain he was constantly standing up in his stirrups and searching the horizon.
“There does not seem to be one straight path in Morocco,” he exclaimed impatiently. “Look at this one. There’s no reason why it should not run straight. Yet it never does.”
Indeed, the track lay across that open plain like some brown, monstrous serpent of a legend.
“I do not believe,” replied Warrisden, “that there is a straight path anywhere in the world, unless it is one which has been surveyed and made, or else it runs from gate to gate, and both gates are visible. One might think the animals made this track, turning and twisting to avoid the bushes. Only the tracks are no straighter in the desert, where there are no bushes at all.”
They halted for half an hour at eleven, beside a bridge which crossed a stream, broken and ruinous, but still serviceable. And while they sat on the ground under the shadow they suddenly heard a great clatter of hoofs upon the broken cobbles; and looking up saw a body of men ride across the bridge. There were about forty of them, young and old; all were mounted, and in appearance as wild and ragged a set of bandits as could be imagined. As they rode over the bridge they saw Warrisden and Stretton seated on the ground beneath them; and without a word or a shout they halted as one man. Their very silence was an intimidating thing.
“Z’mur,” whispered Ibrahim. He was shaking with fear. Warrisden noticed that the two soldiers who accompanied them on this journey to Mequinez quietly mounted their horses. Stretton and Warrisden rose to do likewise. And as they rose a dozen of the mounted Z’mur quietly rode round from the end of the bridge and stood between them and the stream. Then the leader, a big man with a black beard turning grey, began to talk in a quiet and pleasant voice to the soldiers.
“You are bringing Europeans into our country. Now, why are you doing that? We do not like Europeans.”
The soldiers no less pleasantly replied —
“Your country? The Europeans are travelling with a letter from your master and mine, my Lord the Sultan, to the Governor of Mequinez.”
“You will show us then the letter?”
“I will do nothing of the kind,” the soldier replied, with a smile. The Z’mur did not move; the two soldiers sat upon their horses smiling — it seemed that matters had come to a deadlock. Meanwhile Warrisden and Stretton got into their saddles. Then the leader of the Z’mur spoke again —
“We passed five Jews riding on donkeys a little while ago. They were kind enough when we stopped them to give us a peseta apiece. We are going to Fez to offer our help to the Sultan, if only he will give us rifles and ammunition. But we shall go home again when we have got them. Perhaps the Europeans would like to give us a peseta apiece as well.”
“I do not think they would like it at all,” said the soldier. “Peace go with you!” and he turned his horse and, followed, by Warrisden and Stretton, the terrified Ibrahim and the train of mules, he rode right through the forty Z’mur and over the bridge.
It was an awkward moment, but the men of Warrisden’s party assumed, with what skill they could, an air of unconcern. Trouble was very near to them. It needed only that one of those wild tribesmen should reach out his hand and seize the bridle of a horse. But no hand was reached out. The Z’mur were caught in a moment of indecision. They sat upon their horses motionless. They let the Europeans pass.
Ibrahim, however, drew no comfort from their attitude.
“It is because they wish rifles and ammunition from the Government,” he said. “Therefore they will avoid trouble until they have got them. But with the next party it will not be so.”
There are three waterfalls in Morocco, and of those three one falls in a great cascade between red cliffs into a dark pool thirty feet below, close by the village of Medhuma. By this waterfall they lunched, the while Ibrahim bared his right arm to the shoulder, stretched himself full length upon the ground, and, to the infinite danger of the bystanders, practised shooting with his revolver. They lunched quickly and rode on. Towards evening, above a group of trees on a hill, they saw here and there a minaret.
“Mequinez,” exclaimed Ibrahim. “Schoof! Mequinez!”
In a little while fragments of thick wall began to show, scattered here and there about the plain. Brown walls, high and crumbling to rain, walls that never had been walls of houses, but which began and ended for no reason. They were all that was left of the work of Mulai Ismail, who, in the seventeenth century, had built and planned buildings about this town until death put an end to all his architecture. There was to be a wall across the country, from Fez to Morocco city far away in the south, so that the blind, of which this kingdom still has many, and then was full, might pass from one town to another without a guide. Part of that wall was built, and fragments of it rise amongst the oleanders and the bushes to this day.
The travellers entered now upon a park. A green mossy turf spread out soft beneath the feet of their horses, dwarf oaks made everywhere a pleasant shade; Stretton had lost sight now of the minarets, and no sign of Mequinez was visible at all. The ground sloped downwards, the track curved round a hill, and suddenly, on the opposite side of a valley, they saw the royal city, with its high walls and gates, its white houses, and its green-tiled mosques, and its old grey massive palaces stretch along the hillside before their eyes.
One of the soldiers rode forward into the town to find the Basha and present his letters. A troop of men came out in a little time and led the travellers up the cobbled stones through a gateway into the wide space before the Renegade’s Gate, that wonderful monument of Moorish art which neither the wear of the centuries nor the neglect of its possessors has availed to destroy. Its tiles are broken. The rains have discoloured it, stones have fallen from their places. Yet the gate rises, majestic yet
most delicate, beautiful in colour, exquisite in shape, flanked with massive pillars, and surmounted by its soaring arch, a piece of embroidery in stone, fine as though the stone were lace. By the side of this arch the camp was pitched just about the time when the horses and mules are brought down to roll in the dust of the square and to drink at the two great fountains beyond the gate.
Later in that evening there came a messenger from the Basha with servants bearing bowls of kouss-kouss.
“Fourteen soldiers will ride with you to-morrow,” he said, “for the country is not safe. It will be well if you start early, for you have a long way to go.”
“The earlier the better,” said Stretton.
“It will do if you breakfast at five — half-past five,” said Ibrahim, to whom punctuality was a thing unknown. “And start at six — half-past six.”
“No,” said Warrisden. “We will start at five — half-past five.”
That night a company of soldiers kept guard about the tents, and passed the hours of darkness in calling to one another and chanting one endless plaintive melody. Little sleep was possible to the two Englishmen, and to one of them sleep did not come at all. Now and then Warrisden dropped off and waked again; and once or twice he struck a match and lit his candle. Each time that he did this he saw Stretton lying quite motionless in his bed on the other side of the tent. Tony lay with the bed-clothes up to his chin, and his arms straight down at his sides, in some uncanny resemblance to a dead man. But Warrisden saw that all the while his eyes were open. Tony was awake with his troubles and perplexities, keeping them to himself as was his wont, and slowly searching for an issue. That he would hit upon the issue he did not doubt. He had these few days for thought, and it was not the first time that he had had to map out a line of conduct. His course might be revealed to him at the very last moment, as it had been on the trawler in the North Sea. Or it might flash upon him in a second, as the necessity to desert had flashed upon him amidst the aloes of Ain-Sefra. Meanwhile he lay awake and thought.
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 417