Corsair (47 page)

‘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.’

‘S
IDI HASEM
says that his group are already dangerously far out of their own territory. They were on a tribal raid and must withdraw before the Labdessah learn they are here,’ Hector informed his friends after he had rejoined them and told them of Ibrahim’s murder.

‘Can they help us rejoin the coffle?’ asked Bourdon. He was looking hopefully at the Tooaricks’ camels.

Hector shook his head.

‘We’ll never catch up. The caravan’s three days ahead of us. Old Abdullah won’t know what has happened, and the merchants certainly won’t turn back. They will presume that we were all killed by the Tooarick. That will make them travel away from us even faster, to save their own skins.’

‘So what do you suggest?’

‘Sidi Hasem is the denim, the leader of the raid,’ Hector answered. ‘He offered to carry us back to the Wadelim camp.’

‘And what do we do when we get there?’

‘He knows about the great river where the foreign men come with their ships. Every year the Wadelim send someone to a native market near the river to trade ostrich feathers and tree gum for blue cloth. This man could bring us there if we gave him a suitable present. Hasem didn’t mention the price or whom he had in mind as our guide, but I suspect he means he himself would take us if we gave him one of our muskets.’

‘Sounds like a bargain to me.’ Bourdon had experienced more than enough of the desert.

‘Saying that, Hasem and his men are carrying only enough water for themselves. With four more men, double-mounted on the camels, he warns it will not be comfortable as we have to travel fast.’

‘Can’t be much worse than what we’ve endured on the galleys,’ Bourdon declared confidently.

He was much less complacent six hours later when the Wadelim made a brief halt to roast strips of dried meat over a tiny campfire made from pellets of camel dung. The Frenchman lay on the ground, complaining bitterly that a camel’s bony rump had worn holes in the skin of his thighs and buttocks. The Wadelim had ridden at a fast trot, and Hector and his companions had clung on as best they could, using makeshift stirrups the desert people had fashioned for them from strips of cloth. But it had been an agonising experience, splay-legged, jolted on the camel’s spine and rattled against the wood and leather backrest of the Tooarick saddle.

‘Ask them what we will do when the water runs out,’ Bourdon asked with a groan. Hector relayed the answer with a mischievous grin. ‘Sidi Hasem says that when we are really thirsty, we drink camel’s urine.’

Fortunately the water ration held up long enough for the party to reach the Wadelim camp three painful days later. As they rode to the cluster of skin and wool tents hidden in a fold in the ground, Hasem warned Hector and his companions not to be seen staring at the flocks of long-legged goats grazing among the rocks and scrub nearby. The Wadelim believed that strangers brought the evil eye.

‘We don’t have to stay for long,’ Hector reassured Karp when the clan’s children ran away screaming from poor Karp with his ravaged face. They were convinced that he was a yenun, one of the grotesque evil spirits who emerged from the desert in human form to harm them.

‘Something has been puzzling me ever since we ambushed the Labdessah,’ Hector continued. ‘I never heard your gun go off, even though you were close by. And afterwards you did not need to reload. You never fired a shot at the camel rider, even though he was a mortal enemy. Yet when we hunted the ostrich, you hit your mark every time.’

Karp looked back at him. His face was strained.

Hector went on, ‘You have no need to worry, Karp. I also remembered the time we trapped Chabrillan, the man who had caused you so much pain and grief. You attacked him under the city wall and nearly strangled him. Yet afterwards you cried. Was it because you were ashamed of your violence?’

Karp nodded. Now his expression was one of release. It was as though he was being relieved of a burden.

‘You don’t believe in violence, do you? It is part of your religion, something that you believe in profoundly. That is what you preached in Kandia when you joined Chabrillan’s men when they fought the Turks. That is why you suffered all that time on the galley, and you never tried to expose the Chevalier. You did not want revenge. You believe in peace and forgiveness.’

Tears had filled Karp’s eyes.

Hector felt a surge of admiration. ‘Karp,’ he said, ‘you are a good man. It is my duty to tell the others that we cannot expect you to help us if we must fight our way to get clear of Moulay Ismail. But as long as I lead our little band, you will continue to be one of us.’

Sidi Hasem was so eager to earn his payment of a musket that the travellers stayed only long enough for him to assemble a consignment of trade goods. Then he led them southward, at a more sedate pace this time and with one man to a camel. They crossed a dreary flat countryside where the sun had baked the reddish brown soil as hard as marble. At night they camped under the sky or they stayed with other small groups of nomads friendly to the Wadelim who greeted them with bowls of zrig, camel milk mixed with water. Gradually the countryside became less austere. There were low hills and the occasional dry riverbed where, by digging in the gravel, they found a seep of water for their camels. Later they came across small wells. The shafts were dug so deep that they had to climb down wooden ladders to clear away a surface layer of blown dust and camel dung before they could fill their leather buckets. Finally they began to arrive at settlements, no more than a dozen or so mud huts which marked the outer fringes of the desert. Instead of zrig, they were given bowls of porridge made from millet. They had reached the land of cultivators. There, at a village known to Hasem, they left behind their camels and rode forward on donkeys, always heading towards the great river which now had a name. The local people called it the Wadnil.

The countryside continued to grow more luxuriant. They began to pass fields of grain guarded by old men and small boys who chased away flocks of thieving birds. There was pasture and woodland and herds of cattle. The people changed too. They were many more, living in village after village of round straw-thatched huts, and their appearance was very different from the sinewy, olive-skinned desert people. They were taller, loose-limbed and wore their wiry hair piled up on the top of their head in the shape of a pointed cap. Instead of flowing loose robes, the common folk dressed in no more than a small loincloth, and their women went bare-breasted, often with a baby slung on their back – a sight Hector had never seen before. As the travellers came closer to the river, more and more of the people they encountered were a deep midnight black, and their skins glistened for they loved to wash, then oil their bodies.

On the twentieth day of their journey their guide claimed his payment. ‘Tomorrow,’ he told them, ‘we reach the market where I will sell the ostrich feathers and gum. You continue south, and by mid afternoon you will arrive on the banks of the river you have been seeking. But you must hurry. The local people say that soon the Wadnil will shrink within its banks. Then the river traffic ceases. They also tell me that there is a foreign ship anchored, even now, in the river.’

‘That’s good news,’ said Hector. ‘I had thought we would have to go down to the coast to find a foreign ship.’

‘The local people also tell me that there are powerful merchants who resent the presence of this vessel. They see it as a trespasser, a danger to their trade. I think you know who I mean.’

‘Are you talking about traders from Moulay Ismail’s kingdom?’

‘Yes. To them this territory is their own. They come here to take away the elephants’ teeth, the gold, the slaves. They are like jealous hunters who believe that all the animals in a forest belong to them.’

‘It’s strange to think of merchants as hunters.’

Hasem frowned. ‘The merchants, as you call them, bully the people into handing over their possessions, and if they resist, they hurt them. If they want them as slaves, they simply seize them and carry them away. I am told that is what their lord Moulay Ismail does to them. So they do it to others.’

Suddenly Hector felt despondent. After so many days’ travel he had thought that he had heard the last of Moulay. Now, it seemed, the Emperor’s malign influence extended even to the banks of the great river.

The Tooarick was watching him closely. ‘There is more to tell you.’

‘What is that?’

‘The ship anchored in the river is a small vessel and has been in the same place for nearly two weeks. My informants don’t know why it does not leave, because soon the falling river level will trap the vessel. No one comes ashore seeking to trade. It just stays there. Perhaps you can join the ship. I think that is good news.’

‘And there is bad news as well?’

‘The local people also say that the traders from the north have heard about the ship. They are sending some people to drive it away, or maybe to capture it and seize its cargo. My advice is that you hurry. Try to reach the ship before they do.’

The following morning, after thanking Sidi Hasem and leaving him with Karp’s musket and most of their remaining stock of gunpowder, Hector and his three companions set out on foot. The road towards the river was well trodden, and they found themselves walking between thick, green plantations of palm trees and banana plants. The air was hot and oppressive so they were amazed at the costume of a local chieftain who was proceeding to the river ahead of them. The man was wearing what looked like a nightshirt of thick, stiff, striped cotton laced at the neck and extending to his ankles. He had a heavy felt cap, and his voluminous robe was hung with dozens of pieces of red coral, clusters of small seashells, amulets and charms which clattered and jangled with each step. The costume was so stifling and cumbersome that the chieftain was obliged to march along very slowly, accompanied by his squad of sword-bearing bodyguards. Hector decided it would be prudent to turn aside and use a footpath through the trees which after a little distance brought him and his companions out on a bluff overlooking the river itself.

The Wadnil was more than a quarter of a mile wide, its turbid brown flood moving steadily towards their right. On its surface floated large branches and the occasional fallen tree, its great bulk circling slowly in the current. It was obvious that the river level was already dropping. Mud banks were beginning to show in the centre of the river, and nearer at hand the shoreline was a broad expanse of rich, black mud, already cracking in the sun. A few canoes were drawn up on the bank, stranded by the receding water.

Lying at anchor in the middle of the river was a small ship. To Hector’s eye she was not much larger than the fishing boats he had known in his childhood. She had a single mast, from which flew a plain red flag, and a neglected air. A ship’s boat was attached by a rope to her stern. Her deck appeared deserted.

‘What do you make of her?’ he asked Dan.

The Miskito squinted against the glare of the sunlight. ‘She looks like the trading sloops that come to the Miskito Coast. At a guess I’d say she has a crew of no more than half a dozen. They must have had hard work getting her up here against the current.’ He dropped his gaze towards the riverbank below them. ‘Look who’s here!’ he said softly. ‘We should keep out of sight.’

The chieftain and his bodyguard had reached the landing place where the road came to the riverbank. With him was a Moor who wore a faded red burnous. He was the same man who had been spokesman for the coffle.

‘I wonder where the others are?’ Hector said.

‘There, about thirty paces farther along the foreshore,’ said Dan who had the sharpest eyes. ‘You see that big, grey tree trunk lying stranded? Men are crouched behind it. They’ve got muskets with them. I’d say that they’re the rest of the merchants from the caravan.’

There were shouts from below them. The group standing on the landing place was calling and waving towards the anchored boat. The chief was trying to attract the attention of whoever was on board.

‘The landing place is in easy range of the hidden guns,’ said Dan. ‘Whoever comes ashore from that boat, the minute they set foot on land, they’ll be shot down. The Moors can then use the ship’s boat to row out and capture the vessel.’