Corsair

TWENTY-ONE

WITH THE BACK OF his hand Hector brushed the moisture from his cheek. The gesture reminded him of his parting from Elizabeth. She had urged him to forget her, yet the pain of her rejection was ever present. For several days after his meeting with her he had considered returning to Ireland to find out what might have happened to his mother, to learn whether she had stayed there or gone, as he had suspected, back to her own people in Galicia. But in the end he abandoned the idea, as he felt too bruised to embark on another search. And, he asked himself, what was he to tell his mother when he found her? He was unsure that he would be able to sustain the deception that Elizabeth wanted, to tell their mother the lie that he had never found his sister. He decided that if he was to find his mother, it would only be when there was something positive to say, something to make her proud, something that he had achieved. He was very concious that, at eighteen years of age, with his father dead and his only sister vanished into a Barbary harem, he was left to make his own life. Now, a month later, they were not tears which were running down his face. They were beads of sweat.

The day was as hot as he had ever known, hotter even than when he was working in the quarry at Algiers. He turned to look back at his companions. Dan, Bourdon and Karp were riding in single file behind him, Karp leading their packhorse on a halter. They had all wanted to take the chance of leaving Meknes. Dan, always level-headed, had made the initial suggestion. Perhaps his friend had wanted to jolt him out of his despondency by pointing out that staying so close to Elizabeth was only adding to his distress. There was no future in lingering in Meknes, Dan had said. There was nothing Hector could do to save his sister, and the day would come when Moulay demanded to see his castle smasher, and when it failed to materialise, Moulay’s disappointment would have dangerous consequences. Better to slip away quietly, the Miskito had advised, provided that Sean Allen did not suffer as a result. The gun founder had assured him that there was no need to worry on that score because the Emperor always valued a man who would make and mend his cannon. Go south, Allen had urged, for that will give you several days’ start on any pursuit. Moulay’s people will search for you as soon as it is known that you have left without his permission, and they will presume you are heading west or north, directly for the coast. No one will imagine that you’ve gone towards the Great Desert. Then the gun founder had insisted that they accept his gifts of money and weapons – the latest muskets, pistols and powder – because their flight would surely lead them into wild lands.

Hector glanced up at the sun. It was well past the zenith but still blazing down, its heat reflecting from the rocky ground. He could feel his horse tiring beneath him. From time to time the exhausted animal tripped on a loose rock, the stone clattering away down the slope of the barren hillside across which the little column was moving. He reached inside his shirt for the qibla that he had bought in the market at Meknes. No one had thought it strange that a renegade should want to buy a little prayer compass. He checked the direction they were travelling in, for the land was featureless, a succession of rocky slopes with scrubby vegetation and dry water courses. From the outset the little group had avoided main roads. For the past week since leaving Meknes they had travelled by compass, using tracks and byways wherever possible, skirting around the towns and cities, visiting villages only to obtain fodder for the animals and some basic supplies for themselves. Diaz’s cavalry friend Roberto had provided the essential directions. He had campaigned with the imperial army in this region, and Hector had written down the Spaniard’s recollection of the towns, passes and days marched with the army, then transferred it all to a rough sketch which summarised the terrain. He hoped that the Spaniard’s memory had been accurate. He dreaded wandering in a circle, like the dead rowing master, and perhaps stumbling on a detachment of Moulay’s troops. But the others, riding behind, had confidence in him, insisting that he should be their leader. ‘You’re best qualified,’ Bourdon had assured him. ‘You’re thoughtful as well as educated. It’s more than just making a map of our route. You are good at making plans, and at taking everything into consideration. That’s what a leader’s for.’ Hector had tried to dissuade the others, but they were adamant. They had resolved on trying to reach Negritia, the Land of the Blacks. From there they would find a ship far beyond the reach of Moulay Ismail.

Hector had fallen in with their plans because, in truth, he was uncertain where his own future lay. He had only his friendship to sustain him, his friendship with Bourdon and Karp, but above all with Dan. So when the three of them spoke of trying to reach the coast beyond Negritia, he had drawn a map, recalling details from the great map of Piri Reis. He had marked as many of the countries as he could remember and added the conjectured course of a substantial river curving through the interior. This river was reputed to join in one direction to the Nile of Egypt, he told his companions, while in the other direction it was known to empty into the sea at a place where the ships of many trading nations came to do business with the natives, carrying away gold, spices, elephants’ teeth and slaves. ‘Where do those ships return?’ Bourdon had asked. ‘From wherever they came – from England, France, Portugal, Spain, Brandenburg. We could take passage aboard them. You could go home to France,’ Hector had replied. ‘Do any of them sail onwards?’ the pickpocket had asked, his finger tracing a course directly out into the ocean. ‘That would take them towards the Americas,’ Hector answered, and his words had decided their mutual fate. With a grimace Bourdon had touched his galerien’s brand and murmured he would never be welcome back in France. Dan announced that he too would prefer to head westward and return to his own people. Finally Hector had looked across at Karp, who had been staring at the map and listening to their discussion. Karp had nodded his agreement without being asked. And so the decision was made.

Hector wiped his face again. He hoped that the ridge ahead of them would be the final one before they came in sight of Oued Noun. That was the name of the oasis which lay on the edge of the desert, according to Roberto. It was the last place where they would see real houses built of brick and stone. Everything beyond was nomad territory where people sheltered under tents. ‘Whatever you do, don’t try to cross the Great Desert on your own,’ the Spaniard had warned. ‘You wouldn’t stand a chance. You have to know the exact direction and distance of each waterhole, and whether you will find water at that particular season and in that year. Sometimes the waterholes fail. If they do, then you perish. Your best chance is to join a coffle, a caravan, which is properly equipped and has a reliable guide. Just hope you find one when you reach Oued Noun.’

Cresting the ridge, Hector found that the land sloped away as a barren, stony, dun-coloured plain dotted with clumps of thorn bushes and an occasional acacia tree. Among the thorn bushes were the ungainly shapes of camels, at least a hundred of them, foraging on the prickly vegetation. Even as he reined in his horse to take in the view, there was a startled shout. A small boy, evidently a camel herd, had been dozing in the shade of an acacia. He sprang to his feet and went running away towards the low roofs of a small settlement in the distance to carry a warning.

Taking care to stay in view they rode forward. At the outskirts of the cluster of flat-roofed mud-brick houses, they dismounted and walked, leading their horses. A reception committee of about a dozen men, traders by the look of them, was already waiting. They were heavily armed and unfriendly looking. Hector noted more armed men lurking in the alleyways behind them. ‘Salaam aleikom,’ he called out, and when he had received the stock response, he added, ‘If you are going south, we would like to join you.’

‘Where are your trade goods?’ demanded the group’s spokesman suspiciously. He was dressed in a faded red burnous, and eyeing the solitary packhorse and the array of weapons that Hector and his companions carried.

‘We have none. We ask only to accompany you,’ Hector replied politely.

‘And for what reason? We have prepared our coffle these past three months, fattened our camels, and shared our expenses. All our arrangements are made. We have no place for extra travellers.’

‘We would be willing to pay our share of any expenses,’ Hector offered. ‘We ask only to be able to ride with you.’

‘On those horses?’ The spokesman gave a sarcastic laugh.

Hector was about to ask whether the coffle would accept an additional payment when there was a stir among the merchants. Several reached hurriedly for their muskets. Out of the corner of his eye Hector detected a movement. He turned to see that Dan had brought his musket to his shoulder, and for a moment he thought the Miskito was about to shoot down the man in the red burnous. Then he saw that Dan was aiming high and to the left. He pulled the trigger. There was a report of the gun, a puff of black smoke, and a vulture which had settled on a nearby roof was thrown bodily backward by the force of the bullet, and fluttered untidily to the ground.

‘Tell them,’ said Dan quietly, ‘that we can protect the coffle from the desert marauders.’

There was a shocked silence from the merchants. Hector repeated Dan’s offer, and they conferred in low voices until their spokesman announced reluctantly, ‘Very well. You may join us, but on condition that you place yourselves wherever you may best protect the coffle, both by day and by night. As for the camels you will need, we have none to spare. You must arrange that with our guide. You will find him over there, by the village well.’

‘ASSHEADS! I don’t trust them for a moment. They’d sell their own grandmothers, given half a chance,’ Bourdon muttered angrily as he and the others led their horses in the direction of a herd of camels clustering around a watering trough. Amid the camel dung and smells and the continual bawling, groaning and grunting of the animals, a black slave was hauling a leather bucket up from the well. Hector asked where he might find the coffle’s guide, and the slave nodded towards a nearby thorn bush. Spread across its branches was a tattered scrap of cloth. In front a young man sat cross-legged on the dusty ground. He was bent forward, braiding a new girth to a camel saddle.

As Hector approached, he saw that the young man could not have been more than sixteen years old. He was barefoot and dressed only in a long and ragged gown. His unkempt black hair was so long and stiff and wiry so that it stood out from his head in a great bush. ‘Are you the guide for the coffle?’ Hector asked uncertainly. He spoke in simple Arabic, and the youth raised his head to reveal a cheerfully intelligent face and a ready smile. ‘No, that’s my grandfather. I am only his assistant. My name is Ibrahim.’ Without turning round he called out something in a language that Hector did not recognise. In answer something stirred in the patch of shade under the thorn bush. What Hector had taken to be a bundle of rags proved to be a very old man, who climbed very slowly to his feet and came forward. Great age had so shrunk his frame that he could not have been little more than four feet tall, and he walked with the aid of a stick. Most astonishingly of all, when he came close enough for Hector to look into the lined and weather-beaten face, he saw that both the old man’s eyes were filmed over with a milky glaze. The guide was stone blind.

Hector was about to speak up when, to his surprise, Dan greeted the old man politely. The response was a cluck of pleasure, and for several moments the two men talked together. Then Dan turned to his friend and said, ‘He also is amazigh. He speaks the same language I learned when working in the gardens of Algiers. His accent is difficult but I have been able to explain that we will be joining the coffle as guards.’

‘What was his answer?’

‘He says that he is pleased. We will be acting as an armed escort. There has been much difficulty this year with a people he calls the Tooarick. They live by banditry. He knows we have good muskets for he heard my musket shot. He says it was the sound of a good weapon.’

‘And can he provide camels?’

‘He offers to trade our horses for camels. They can be left behind here, and he has cousins who will come to collect them later. In exchange he will provide us with camels from Talifat – apparently they are famous for their stamina – and supply saddles and teach us how to ride them. Also he will arrange that we have proper clothing for the desert. We must wear loose cotton gowns and cover our heads with cloths to keep off the sun. He says it would also be wise to leave behind our boots and shoes, and wear sandals.’

‘I’m not giving up my boots,’ interrupted Bourdon. ‘Everyone knows that the desert is full of poisonous insects and serpents. I don’t want to get bitten or stung.’

Hector hesitated. ‘Ask him if we can’t keep our horses. We might need them again on the far side of the desert.’

Dan translated his request to the old man and relayed his reply. ‘He agrees that a horse is capable of crossing the desert, but only if accompanied by a camel carrying water. That means six water skins for every horse, plus another camel to carry dried grass, grain and blocks of dried dates as horse feed. Even so, the horse will die if it goes lame, or if the camel falls sick. He recommends we take only camels.’

‘Tell him that we will follow his advice.’

A WEEK LATER, with Oued Noun far behind them, Hector was regretting that he had accepted the old man’s counsel. Riding a camel was uncomfortable. The creature’s loose-limbed gait meant that he spent most of each day swaying back and forth awkwardly in an lurching rhythm. If he dismounted to walk beside the animal, he had to beware of the creature’s foul breath and moody temperament. Before leaving the village Ibrahim, the guide’s grandson, had shown them how to make the camels kneel, how to hobble them loosely so they could graze when there was any vegetation, and to tie them more closely by the knee when they camped for the night. ‘Place your trust in Allah, but tie up your camel,’ the young man had joked. But Hector still found the camels to be fractious and awkward to control. He would much have preferred to be mounted on a horse as he tried to ride at the flanks and rear of the coffle in case there was an attack from the mysterious Tooarick of whom the merchants were so fearful. He had expected the caravan to march as a long single column. Instead it advanced on a broad front, walking slowly across the bleak, flat landscape, each merchant and his slaves and servants attending to their own band of camels. Out in front rode Abdullah, the old guide, accompanied by his grandson. Each night when the caravan halted at a waterhole, Hector and the others would join the two amazigh at their campfire. The merchants completely ignored them.

‘My horse could have come this far without any difficulty,’ Hector confided to Ibrahim one evening. It had been natural to strike up a friendship with the cheerful and enthusiastic young man. ‘Each night we have arrived at a waterhole where the animals could drink. My arms are aching from trying to steer my camel in the right direction.’

‘There’s a saying that “the camel driver has his plans – and the camel has his”,’ was the light-hearted reply, ‘and this is only the early stage of our crossing. Later we will find water only every three days, or less often. And there are places where the surface of the desert is dangerous. The ground seems firm and hard, but it is only a thin crust. It gives way suddenly. A horse would break its leg in the hole, but a camel is more flexible. It can be pulled out with ropes, and continue on the journey.’ The young man tossed another dry branch from a thorn bush on to the fire and watched the sparks fly up into the night air. ‘Besides, my grandfather tells me that tomorrow we will have the irifi, the desert wind. He predicts that it will only last a few hours but it will make life difficult for our beasts. You should warn your companions that they will need their sheshs, their turbans.’

The sky dawned an ominous reddish grey. The caravan had barely begun its march when the first puffs of a gentle breeze began to lift the dust and sand into little spirals that skittered and twisted across the ground before collapsing and disappearing. By mid-morning the wind had increased until sand particles were blowing painfully into the men’s faces, making them sneeze and their eyes water. They were obliged to dismount from their camels, wrap cloths about their heads, and plod onward, heads bent low. Beside them the camels walked on, their nostrils narrowed and their eyes half-closed behind their long eyelashes. Until evening the irifi swirled around them, rising in strength to a full gale. Visibility fell to less than twenty paces, and the coffle huddled in a dense mass, fearful of losing touch with one another. A horse in such hostile conditions, Hector reflected, would have refused to advance and turned to stand miserably with its tail against the scouring wind.

‘Now I know why Abdullah doesn’t need good eyesight to lead the caravan,’ Hector commented to Ibrahim as they rested by the campfire. ‘I could scarcely raise my head against the sand blast. When I did, it was impossible to see anything.’

‘It could have been much worse. The irifi sometimes blows for five or six days, and much more strongly. Entire caravans have been known to perish, unable to move forward or backward until buried by the sand. That was what happened to my father. He was leading a coffle which the wind destroyed. We never found his body. I expect he is lying somewhere beneath the surface of the desert, a dried corpse along with his camels and the merchants he was guiding. Sometimes, years later, the wind blows away the sand again. So maybe he will be found, and we can give him a proper burial.’

Picking up two metal bowls, Ibrahim rose to his feet and said, ‘You and Dan can give me a hand. In less than a week we begin the most difficult stage of our journey. There will be no water for ten days and not a blade of grass nor a single leaf for our camels to eat. There’s an old jmel among our beasts which will not survive the ordeal. It is better we put it to good use now.’

He led the way to where the camels were hobbled. Singling out the animal he wanted, he led it a little distance away. There he made the beast kneel, and showed Dan how to pull the halter so that the camel turned its head to one side, stretching its neck in a curve. While Hector held the bowl beneath the artery, Ibrahim expertly cut the animal’s neck so that the blood splashed into the receptacle. ‘Put the bowl on the embers of the campfire,’ he told Hector. ‘In a few minutes the blood will thicken to a good soup. Dan and I will start to deal with the carcass. Tonight we feast on the entrails. Tomorrow we’ll begin to dry the meat in the sun, and we’ll save the hide for when it’s needed.’ He slid his knife blade into the dead camel’s gut, exposing a globular paunch which he carefully cut open. Inside was a thick green gruel, foul smelling with lumps. Taking the second bowl he scooped out the contents. ‘This too can be cooked for our supper,’ he said. ‘It has already been eaten by the jmel. But we can enjoy it too. In the desert nothing goes to waste.’

A week later the camel hide was put to use when Bourdon reluctantly agreed to abandon his battered footwear despite his fear of snakes and biting insects. By then his boots had been cut to shreds on flinty gravel. Ibrahim expertly cut double-soled sandals for him using the skin of the dead jmel whose meat already hung in strips from their pack saddles, drying in the sun. They were now in the most difficult sector of the desert crossing, a desiccated brown expanse of sand and rocky outcrops which, in the simmering heat haze, could be mistaken for the roofs of distant towns. At its worst the heat was so intense that the coffle had to travel by night. The men spent the days sheltering from the sun under strips of cloth or in the shadow of piles of camel packs. The sand became so hot that it was painful to stand barefoot, and their precious water skins daily grew more flabby as their contents dwindled through evaporation. Finally, when it seemed that the ordeal would never end, Abdullah declared that they had passed the halfway mark. Hector, who had long since given up using the qibla to trace the direction of travel, was amazed by the blind man’s certainty.

‘How can your grandfather be so sure?’ he asked Ibrahim. ‘I have not the least idea how far we have travelled.’

‘My grandfather has crossed the desert at least thirty times,’ Ibrahim answered proudly. ‘In his head he keeps a count of the days and hours on this journey, even the number of paces. He listens to the sounds of the desert, and he says that every part has its own feeling which tells him where he is. When in doubt, he smells the sand.’

Hector had indeed noticed how, from time to time, the old guide took up a fistful of sand and held it to his face. Now he was too tactful to question Ibrahim’s assertion. Bourdon, however, was more dubious. He quietly scooped up some sand and wrapped it in a cloth. The following day he placed the sample in the old guide’s hand and asked Ibrahim to enquire from his grandfather how many days were left until the coffle reached the next watering place. The old man sniffed the sample and, with an angry outburst, flung it down in disgust. ‘What did he say?’ Bourdon asked. Ibrahim looked hurt as he translated, ‘My grandfather says that he is being taken for a fool. Either that, or the caravan has gone in a circle and we are back where we were yesterday.’

Bourdon was crestfallen. ‘Please apologise to him from me. I meant no harm. All my life I have lived among rogues and charlatans so I always suspect some sort of cheat.’

Yet even Hector had reason to doubt the old man when the caravan crossed a low range of rocky hills and Ibrahim rode up to him to say that his grandfather had announced that they should be in sight of the longed-for watering hole. Hector strained his eyes, but could see nothing. The desert stretched out as usual, bare, monotonous, and utterly devoid of life. There was not even the false glimmer of a distant mirage which so often duped him into thinking that a lake lay ahead. Suddenly his camel lurched off at a trot, and within a dozen strides was plunging along at a mad gallop. All around, the other camels were similarly stampeding. They surged forward in a roaring, incoherent mass. Ahead, Ibrahim was goading his camel even faster, kicking up a cloud of dust. After some three miles of this mad careering gallop, Ibrahim drew to a halt, jumped down and began to scrabble at the ground, peeling back a cover made of camel and goatskins. Beneath the cover the ground was a water soak which had been protected from the sun. Ibrahim and the camel drivers dug troughs which filled with a few inches of water, and the thirsty camels shoved and jostled, biting and kicking one another as they fought to suck up the water that they craved. Ibrahim’s face beneath his great bush of hair broke into a broad grin. ‘My grandfather has succeeded again,’ he exulted. ‘The worst is over.’

When the camels had slaked their thirst, he asked Dan, Hector and the others to go on ahead with him. ‘There’s a second, better, waterhole about an hour away. I will show you how we can harvest the desert’s bounty. It’s time to celebrate with a feast.’

‘Please, no more camel’s intestines,’ groaned Bourdon.

‘No. This time we’ll have roast ostrich.’

Sure enough, as they approached the next waterhole, a flock of about twenty ostrich ran off. The giant birds paced away across the desert, their wings outspread. Hector had come across ostriches in the Emperor’s menagerie. But this was the first time he had seen the birds in the wild.

‘We’ll never get close enough to shoot them. They run as fast as a galloping horse,’ he said to Ibrahim.

‘That’s not how we’ll do it,’ the young man replied. ‘This waterhole is where the birds prefer to drink. All we have to do is dig some holes in the sand where you and the others can lie hidden with your muskets. The birds are suspicious of camels so I’ll take them back to the coffle, and bring the caravan here at dusk. Good hunting!’

The ambush was easier than Hector had anticipated. He and his three companions prepared their hiding places. Less than an hour after Ibrahim had ridden away, the flock of ostriches came walking back across the desert, unaware of any danger. The hidden musketeers waited until the great birds made easy targets. Their first volley brought down three ostriches. When the flock foolishly came back a second time, they killed another four. That evening the entire caravan fed better than it had done for many weeks, and Hector fell asleep on a patch of soft sand. He was gorged on roast ostrich meat.

A cry of pain awoke him. He sat up, feeling slightly groggy, and looked around. His eyes had to adjust to the half-darkness. It was still several hours before dawn but the moon had risen and was shedding enough light to see that the camp was in uproar. Dan was already on his feet, a pistol in his hand. Their camels, which had been hobbled kneeling, were straining at their bonds as they tried to rise to their feet. They were roaring and moaning in fright. In the distance there were shouts of alarm. Suddenly a figure flitted between Hector and the last embers of the campfire. For a heart-stopping moment he thought it was a djinn, one of the spectres which Ibrahim had spoken about, evil spirits which wander the desert in the form of men or animals or dust devils. This one had assumed the shape of a human. It was pale grey from head to foot, gaunt and stark naked. It held a spear in each hand, and the hair on its head was long and filthy. As the figure glanced towards him, the creature’s eyes glittered for a moment in the moonlight. It took Hector a few seconds to realise that what he was looking at was a desert thief.

The attack was over before anyone could react. Ibrahim lit a brand from the fire and went to check their losses. Two camel saddles were missing, and several strips of dried camel meat. One of their animals was bleeding from a deep gash where a thief had stabbed it in the shoulder with his spear. ‘The bandit probably hoped to cripple the creature so we had to leave it behind,’ he commented glumly. He called out for his grandfather to come to look, and when there was no reply, went to where the old man had lain down to sleep beside a thorn bush. He found him sitting, dazed from a blow to the head. With his acute hearing Abdullah had been the first to detect the presence of the thieves as they crept into camp, and had tried to intercept them. They had struck him down without mercy. ‘They must have been watching the waterhole, waiting for a coffle to show up,’ said the old man after he had recovered enough to speak, and various merchants arrived with similar tales of thefts and losses. ‘This time we were lucky. They were only sneak thieves. If there had been more of them, we might have been murdered as we slept.’

‘Will they attack again?’ demanded the merchant’s spokesman angrily. He was wearing the same faded red burnous as the day Hector first saw him, and was in a foul mood. He had lost several packs of trade goods.

‘They are Tooarick of the Labdessah tribe. They live by plunder,’ answered the guide. ‘It is best that the caravan moves on tomorrow before the word gets out that we are here, and the Labdessah summon their fellows.’

The spokesman rounded on Hector. ‘You are meant to be our guards! Instead you were snoring by the fire.’ He was spitting with rage. ‘When we march, you will be sure to protect us. Otherwise it will be the worse for you!’

‘There is no point in quarrelling,’ the old man intervened. ‘Save your strength for the journey. Now that the Tooarick have found us, they will not give up. They will follow us like jackals.’

His prediction was painfully accurate. The coffle moved on the next morning but the thieves struck again during the following night. Hector and his companions stayed on guard with their muskets but failed again to detect the intruders and did not fire a shot. The Labdessah were expert thieves. Stripped naked, their bodies smeared with ashes, they crept their way into the encampment and made off with more trade goods. They cut the hobbles of a dozen camels and drove them off into the darkness. A merchant who tried to stop them was stabbed in the stomach and died four hours later. The merchants swore and raged. They shouted at Hector and his companions, and blamed Abdullah for their troubles. But there was no remedy. On the third night the caravan was robbed yet again, and however urgently the travellers marched onward, they knew they were failing to shake off their tormentors. They embarked on a sand sea where a succession of tall dunes extended in every direction like waves on the surface of an ocean. If they looked behind them from the summits of the taller dunes, they could see in the far distance a Labdessah outrider mounted on his camel. He was tracking them, waiting for them to make camp so that his fellows could plan their next attack.

Hector grew more and more frustrated. ‘We can’t go on like this,’ he confessed to Ibrahim on the fourth day of their ordeal. The young man, who normally rode beside his grandfather in advance, had dropped back to join the rear guard. ‘The caravan is being bled to death.’

Ibrahim shook his head. ‘My grandfather tells me that it is impossible to shake off the Labdessah once they have attached themselves to a coffle. They are like the parasites that feed on the camels. Once they fasten on to their victim they do not let go.’

‘Then I suggest we give the Labdessah a nasty surprise.’

Ibrahim cocked his head on one side as he looked at Hector with sudden interest. ‘You have a plan?’

‘The Tooarick don’t yet know that we have good muskets,’ Hector said.

Ibrahim thought for a moment before replying. ‘Not unless they witnessed you shooting the ostriches. Otherwise you have not yet used your guns in their presence. The Labdessah have always attacked in the dark, and they are armed with spears or knives.’

‘Then I propose we deal with them as we dealt with the ostriches. When we come to a suitable place – a dip between the sand dunes where we are out of sight of the pursuit – Dan, Jacques, Karp and I will get down off our camels and prepare an ambush. We will scrape out shallow holes where we can lie in wait with our muskets. You ride on, taking our camels with you, and rejoin the coffle. With luck the Labdessah will blunder straight into the trap, and we will give them a bloody nose. Later you can come back and collect us.’

Ibrahim’s face lit up. ‘We could set the ambush right now, over the next sand ridge. I’ll tell my grandfather about it later. But please be careful. The thieves have the eyes of falcons and would immediately notice anything unusual. We must work quickly.’

The next hollow between the dunes proved an ideal site for the ambush. There was a patch of soft level sand on which grew a few withered bushes, no more than two feet high. Here Hector and his companions slid down from their camels and hastily scraped out shallow trenches for themselves. Placing their muskets before them, they lay down, and Ibrahim quickly threw sand over them to cover them. Then he remounted and led the camels off in the direction of the marching caravan. ‘I’ll be back before nightfall,’ he called. ‘In the name of Allah, shoot straight!’

Hector lay on his belly, feeling the heat of the sand spreading up through his thin cotton garments. To his right, about twenty paces away, Karp was similarly buried. Away to his left lay Bourdon and Dan. Each man had picked a location where a low leafless bush gave additional cover but did not interfere with his sight line. They lay in a shallow arc, facing the way they had come. Before them the dune sloped upward quite steeply, then came to a crest some fifty yards away. That was were they expected the Labdessah to show.

Gently Hector checked that the lock of his musket was in working order. Unwinding the end of his head cloth, he draped it loosely around the delicate mechanism to protect it from the sand. Then he lowered his face down to the sand, blew gently to clear a few loose grains from his nose and mouth, and closed his eyes. He settled down to wait.

After some time he became aware of a tickling sensation on his forehead. A small creature was burrowing up through the sand towards his face. He raised his head slightly to ease the pressure on the sand and give the creature an easier passage. The tickling became more of a scratching. He lifted his head higher still, allowing an inch or so of free space, and felt a slight rasping sensation just below his hairline. The creature was almost clear. He opened his eyes to see what it was. Less than an inch away stood a scorpion as long as his middle finger, and as fat. The insect must have detected the flicker of his eyelid, for suddenly it stopped and raised its sting, curling its body ready to strike. Hector held his breath. The green sea-pale transparency of the scorpion’s shiny body was the colour of the tiny crabs which had crawled across the rock pools when he was a boy. Its armoured body was like a miniature lobster, only curled in reverse. He was almost cross-eyed with the strain of keeping the deadly creature in focus, yet holding completely still. The muscles of his neck complained as he arched his head even farther backwards. Ibrahim had warned them of the Saharan scorpion. The sting would kill a dog within six or seven minutes. A man would die in as many hours, from convulsions.

For what seemed like an age the black tip of the venom sting wavered in his face. Then the scorpion relaxed. The body slowly uncurled, and the insect crawled off on its crooked legs.

The next time he raised his head, Hector was shocked to see two camel riders had already started down the slope of the sand dune before him. They were Labdessah. Both men were swathed in loose blue garments, and their heads and faces were wrapped in folds of black cloth leaving only a narrow slit for their eyes. They were halfway down the slope, the feet of their camels plunging into the soft sand, when another half-dozen Tooarick appeared on the skyline behind them. Hector reached forward gently. His arm was numb where he had been lying on it, and he could feel a tingling as the blood began to flow again. Very gently he peeled aside the cloth protecting the musket lock. He took slow deep breaths. His eyes never left the two Labdessah as they rode closer.

A single low bush stood in isolation some thirty paces in front of him. It had been agreed with the others that this bush would mark the point where they would spring their ambush. The two cameleers were only a few paces away from it now. He raised his musket and took aim at the leading rider. The target came level with the bush, and he fired even as he heard the sound of Bourdon’s musket to his left, and then a shot from Dan. Through the small cloud of black smoke Hector saw the lead rider crash from his saddle, hitting the ground so heavily that Hector knew he must be dead. The second man lurched sideways. He managed to stay on his camel, which gave a great swerve and began a panic-stricken run across the face of the sand dune. Farther up the dune were sudden shouts of dismay and alarm. The six Labdessah wrenched their camels around, and applied their goads as they forced their beasts into an urgent retreat. Within moments they had fled over the crest of the dune, closely followed by their wounded colleague and the runaway camel of his dead companion.

Bourdon gave a whoop of triumph. ‘That should have stopped them in their tracks,’ he exulted as he sprang up from his hiding place, and began to reload his musket. Hector and Dan waited for Karp to join them before they approached the downed Labdessah. The man had been killed outright. He lay on his back, one leg bent under him, an arm flung out.

‘Did you get a good look at the ones who got away?’ Hector asked Dan.

‘Yes,’ the Miskito replied. ‘I’d say they learned their lesson. Only two of them were carrying muskets, and both weapons were obsolete and near useless. They know now that we can bite back.’

‘Let’s hope they leave the caravan alone in future,’ Bourdon intervened. He was still jubilant. ‘Maybe those bastard merchants in the coffle will treat us with a little more respect now they know what we can do.’

‘We should not wait down here,’ said Hector. ‘If the Labdessah decide to come back, we’re dangerously exposed. We’d better climb back to the crest of the dune. From there we can keep a lookout, and wait for Ibrahim.’

Feet sinking deep in the loose sand, they scrambled to the top of the dune. There was no shade anywhere, and the sun beat down on them out of a clear sky as they sat and waited for Ibrahim to bring their camels. The hours passed, and they became more and more thirsty. From time to time Jacques, the most impatient, stood up and scanned the horizon. There was no sign of the Labdessah, nor of Ibrahim. There was not a living creature in view except the distant black speck of a circling bird of prey. Finally, as the sun began to set, the Frenchman voiced what all of them had been thinking. ‘What do you think is delaying Ibrahim? He should have been here long before now. The coffle will have moved on so far that it will be impossible for us to catch up with it on foot.’

Hector rose and shook the sand from his clothing. ‘Wait here and keep a good lookout. I’m going down to check the body of the Labdessah. Maybe he had some food on him, and a waterskin.’

But when he reached the corpse, he found that the man had carried only a dagger strapped to his forearm, and a small leather purse on a cord around his neck. The purse contained a handful of worn copper coins. Nearby lay two spears which had fallen to the ground when he was shot. His food and waterskin must have been on his camel, which had bolted. The effort of plodding back up the dune made Hector realise just how weak and thirsty he had become. He felt slightly dizzy by the time he rejoined the others, and was glad to drop down on the sand and rest. ‘Nothing,’ he reported. ‘We’ll have to spend the night here, and hope that Ibrahim shows up in the morning. It’s sensible to stay where he knows to find us.’

After sunset the temperature began to fall rapidly. The four men shivered in their light clothing, huddling together trying to share their warmth. They took it in turns to keep watch, though none of them slept for more than a few moments. They heard scuffling noises from below, and guessed that a sort of scavenger was investigating the corpse of the Labdessah. Fearful that the dead man’s companions might return, they jumped at shadows. Bourdon caught a glimpse of a flitting movement in the darkness. He raised his musket and was about to take a shot when the shadow revealed itself as a tiny fox-like animal with huge ears which gazed at them for a second, then turned and vanished.

Hector was on watch when the red-orange glow of another fiery sunrise began to light up the horizon. Below him was a remarkable sight. A blanket of white mist, no more than a few feet deep, had silently occupied the sand valley in the night. He marvelled that the vapour could form in such an arid land, and licked his cracked lips at the thought of the moisture, so close yet unobtainable. His gaze travelled down the length of the valley and there, some distance away, were the heads and shoulders of five men coming towards him. They must have been on camels for they swayed back and forth with the characteristic movement of their mounts. Yet the animals themselves were invisible, submerged within the layer of white mist. Briefly he was reminded of the day when Turgut Reis’s galley had glided through the sea fret of Sardinia, and the sailor Dunton had told him that the lookouts at the masthead could be in clear sunshine above the fog. Now, even as he watched, the mist began to ebb. It shrank down, thinner and thinner, and the corpse of the dead Labdessah appeared like a dark rock when the tide receded. Hector came to his senses. He had been so cold that his thoughts were sluggish. He nudged Dan with his foot. ‘Riders,’ he said softly. ‘Coming our way. Stay low. I’ll let you know what’s happening.’

As he watched, the camel riders continued their approach. They were in single file, with one man some distance in front. Presumably he was their scout. Something about the way they rode told Hector that they were keeping a watchful lookout. ‘Slide back over the edge of the dune, and keep out of sight,’ he warned the others. ‘They look like Labdessah, five of them. Maybe they’ve not seen us and will ride by.’ All five riders were dressed in the loose blue garments of Tooarick, and the black cloths wrapped around their heads gave them a sinister appearance. The only difference among them that Hector could see was that their leader rode a particularly fine-looking camel. Its bridle and trappings were hung with red and blue decorations.

‘They’ll be within musket range very soon,’ he said softly. ‘Get your guns ready. I’ll give the word if we need to fire on them. They’re still in single file. Karp, you take the second man in line. Jacques, the third. Dan, your target is the same as mine. The leader.’

‘Why let them pass?’ hissed Bourdon. ‘They’ll be carrying water, and without water we will die out here.’

‘Let’s wait and see,’ Hector answered.

The main group of riders had halted. They were still out of musket range. Only their leader had continued forward. He was heading directly for the corpse of the Labdessah, clearly visible among the last wisps of mist. When he reached the corpse, he reined in his camel and looked down. Then he dismounted and walked across to the body. Leaning over, he began to search through the dead man’s clothes. He was plundering the corpse. Turning about, he tied a hobble to his camel, hitched up the hem of his gown with one hand, and began to climb the dune. He was heading straight for where Hector lay.

‘What’s going on?’ It was Bourdon. He had crawled up beside Hector and was peering down. When he saw the advancing Tooarick he pushed forward his musket, cocked the weapon, and began to take aim. ‘Don’t shoot,’ warned Hector. ‘He knows we are here. He wants something.’ He had noticed that the man had left his musket strapped to his camel.

Thirty paces below them the man stopped. Reaching up, he unwound the black cloth which covered his lower face and called out to them. ‘Peace be with you. I am Sidi Hasem of the Wadelim.’

‘Greetings,’ Hector called back. ‘We are travellers.’

‘You killed this dog of a Labdessah?’

‘We did.’

‘Then I welcome you. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’

Hector rose to his feet.

‘What are you doing? He’s Tooarick!’ blurted Jacques anxiously.

‘Keep me covered. He wants to talk. He’s our best chance of getting food and water.’

Hector slithered down the slope until he was a few paces from the stranger. The man who called himself Sidi Hasem had a sharp, narrow face. His skin was the dark olive of the desert dwellers, and Hector guessed he was about forty years old. His eyes were deep-set, almost black, and they regarded the Irishman calmly.

‘You are from the coffle that passed this way two days ago?’ he asked.

‘Yes. We are waiting for our friends to come back to collect us.’

‘Let me show you something,’ said the Tooarick. ‘Your companions up there can come down if they want. They will not be harmed. Or they can stay where they are, if they wish. We know that you can defend yourselves.’ He glanced meaningfully at the musket that Hector carried. ‘It will be easier if you left that here. We need to travel only a short distance and will be back very quickly.’

Sidi Hasem’s self-assurance was persuasive. Hector found himself trusting the man. Turning towards Dan and the others, he shouted to them that he would be back shortly. Then he followed the Tooarick to where his camel was kneeeling. The camel saddle, Hector noted, was different from the plain pack-saddles he had ridden with the coffle. It had two elegant horns which curved upward like the wings of a butterfly. Hasem unhobbled the animal and gestured for Hector to climb up behind the saddle and hold on. The Tooarick then settled himself in his seat and prodded the camel with his goad so that it rose to its feet with a great belch. A moment later Hector found himself clinging on tightly as the animal moved off at a rapid trot.

Hector could see little beyond Hasem’s blue-clad back as he guided his beast in the direction that the coffle had gone. There was a smell of camel and human sweat, and the occasional bubbling complaint of the animal as it was urged to climb the steep slopes of one dune after another. His owner remained silent. After about four miles the Tooarick slowed his camel to a walk, and Hector, peering over his shoulder, knew that no words were necessary. Even from a distance he could recognise Ibrahim’s great shock of wiry hair.

A short distance ahead was an area of flat ground where the gravel showed through the layer of sand. Here a few stunted thorn bushes had taken root. Lying among the bushes was a body.

Hasem brought his camel to a halt. Dismounting, he led Hector to where the young man lay face down. The killers had stripped him bare. Blood had crusted black where there was a spear wound in his back. ‘Is this the man you were expecting?’ asked Hasem. ‘Yes,’ answered Hector. He felt sick to the stomach that his plan for the ambush had provoked such a disaster. ‘We came across the body by accident when we were tracking the Labdessah,’ said the Tooarick. ‘They caught him, and then will have taken his camels.’

‘What should we do now?’ asked Hector. There was a lump in his throat, and he was at a loss.

‘We bury him. Then we leave without delay.’ He saw that Hector was dazed.

‘Later you can grieve. Allah has relieved your friend of his burden.’