Secret of the Sands (21 page)
Because he only sees the camp on the occasions when the emir decides to have the tents taken down, loaded and transported to a new location, Jessop has become attuned to the noises that surround such an operation. The dismantling itself is all but silent, more distinctive is the hubbub of men and women performing strenuous work in the heat (even though the removals do not take place over the hottest six hours of the day). Jones has not spoken for a long time, the doctor notes. He considers saying something, for the camp is definitely coming down and he knows that they will be fetched and herded like livestock, in fact, alongside the goats, to whichever new location the emir has chosen. He lifts his hand, which moves Jones’ wrist and disturbs him, so that the lieutenant grunts and snores.
Ah,
the doctor thinks,
he is deep asleep. I shall leave him.
Jessop smiles as it passes across his mind that the details of tribal life in the interior is exactly why the two of them were sent here and there is some irony in that now he is something of an expert. He knows the tasks the women perform and what is the men’s responsibility. He has a good idea of the spiritual considerations that are taken into account when the
Bedu
make decisions, and he has a par ticularly sharp understanding of the importance of water. Water shapes this culture, water drives it. There is little for the British to trade here. The country lacks any kind of effective infrastructure and Jessop cannot imagine a demand for either British textiles or even opium. The Arabs are puritan in their tastes and Allah, he is sure, would not approve of the poppy. He imagines a railway built through the desert and then laughs out loud. It is an out -rageous and ridiculous notion. The doctor is no engineer but he is sure it would be impossible, for large stretches of
Rubh Al Khali
is made up of shifting dunes. However, he allows himself the luxury of considering a few station names. The doctor favours the romantic and picks out
Oasis of Stars
, painted with white enamel on a burgundy plaque. He im agines purchasing a ticket from the Oasis of Stars all the way to the station at Euston, which he has read is under construction.
‘If I start now, I might even get there in time for the Grand Opening,’ he smirks.
The tent flap is pulled back and a tribesman Jessop hasn’t seen before enters. He is taller than the usual jailer and, surprisingly, he smiles broadly when he catches the doctor’s eye. It is as if he has blundered into the tent in the confusion of the whole camp packing up.
‘
Salaam aleikhum
,’ he bows.
The doctor is not quite sure how to respond. He’s been treated like an animal for so many weeks now that such courtesy is strange. He smiles cautiously and flicks his wrist several times to wake Jones, who jerks into consciousness with a squeal.
‘We’re moving, Jones,’ the doctor apprises his lieuten ant.
The man leans down and loosens the bonds so the prisoners can use their hands. Then he leaves the tent and returns a few seconds later in a waft of fresh air. He pauses beside the infidels. In one hand he has a goatskin flask and in the other a huge flatbread. Jessop tries not to breathe in the smell in too obvious a fashion, but there is no question that the flatbread is filled with meat and garlic. It is fresh. In fact, if the doctor is not mistaken, it is still hot.
‘Here,’ the man lays the flask and the bread on the ground. ‘We have far to walk.’
Both Jones and Jessop are so stunned by this unexpected generosity that they freeze momentarily. They cannot help wondering if this is some kind of trick. Over the weeks of privation they have worn down to all but skin and bones and the doctor doubts that the two of them together weigh as much as he did alone when he left the
Palinurus
. After an initial pause, both men fall on the food with vigour, stuffing in strips of fluffy bread, sucking the meat of its gravy and licking their chins of the grease. The water is quite fresh and the two of them finish the whole goatskin in what seems less than a minute.
Jones puts a hand on his stomach. He can feel the food and water inside. It is a comforting, pleasant sensation. ‘Now that’s what I call a decent breakfast,’ he grins.
The man looks shocked at the feeding frenzy. Not all the tribesmen, it would seem, are aware of the way the prisoners have been treated. He shrugs, deciding it is none of his business, and then beckons them to their feet, rebinding their hands and leading the men out of the tent. Outside, the afternoon sun is astonishingly bright and the white men squint towards it. The camp is already loaded onto the camels and the children run around in excitement, charged with ensuring the goats do not wander. Women carry pots on their heads and some even have babies swaddled across their
burquahs
. The man who fetched them is having a heated exchange with the jailer, who is crossing the sand with a plate of scraps.
‘You fed them?’
‘Yes. There was bread left.’
‘You let them have bread?’
‘And some water. We will walk all night.’
The jailer blusters furiously. ‘I saved this,’ he spits.
The scraps are rotten. Jessop can smell them from where he stands. But he’d eat them. Of course he would.
The jailer pours the contents of the dish onto the ground and kicks sand over them. ‘I waste my time!’ he exclaims. ‘The goats have eaten too.’
‘But I was trying to help,’ the other man defends himself.
‘I think we were rather lucky there, old man,’ Jones points out.
The doctor nods. He hopes that the jailer doesn’t take it out on them later. Still, for fresh food and a decent drink of almost fresh water, he’d happily endure some abuse. ‘I wonder where we’re heading?’ he ponders.
‘Near Riyadh,’ Jones says nonchalantly. ‘I heard one of them say the other day, that the camp was moving to somewhere beyond Riyadh. Some oasis. Middle of nowhere, I expect.’
The men begin to move forward and fall in with the caravan that is forming. At moments like this it always puzzles the doctor how, without any overt leadership, the tribe decides to move out all together. You’d never wrangle sailors this way. It is late afternoon, he calculates by the sun, and they are heading east. He heaves a sigh for he is exhausted already. It is going to be a long night.
Four days off Riyadh and the last day of October 1833, Kasim captures a hawk. They hit a patch of rocky, arid land in the run-up to the settlement. It is still desert but there are no dunes. The going is easier and there is sparse grazing for the camels – sticks of grass, thorny acacia and a scattering of rigid bushes with tiny, grey leaves. Kasim checks under the bird’s wings but the feathers are not fully developed and it is too young to fly, though its talons are sharp enough.
‘The chick must have got separated from its parents too early,’ Kasim explains as he covers the bird with a light rug so it stops flapping. He feeds it a little meat and tethers the creature to his saddle. At night he fashions a hood and begins to train it. Over the next three days the bird becomes as devoted to him as a wild creature can be. It sits majestically to the rear of his camel, perched on the saddle like a mascot. When he sets it free it wheels high above the burning oven that radiates from ground level and soars to the cooler air so that it is visible only as a tiny dot. Still, it returns to Kasim’s arm immediately at the whistle. As they finally come into Riyadh a group of
Bedu
ask to buy it and offer a price that is more than fair, but Kasim shakes his head. He is, Wellsted thinks, a strange fellow. Cold to a
habshi
and kind to a hawk. A slaver who turns his back on coins of profit, freely offered, when the bird cost him nothing but his occupation in training it.
After the desolation of the desert, the sight of Riyadh on a Friday afternoon is a shock. The slash of green that rises out of the sands is startling and complex. The orchards waft fresh scent through the thin streets and the straggle of white houses on the outskirts dazzle like gemstones on a green, velvet throw. The town is a place of tremendous fecundity. As they move towards the centre of the settlement, the whole party is diverted by the sudden sight of so much life. The
jumaah,
Friday prayers, are over and the dusty alleyways echo with music and laughter – there are people everywhere outside their houses and shops. It has been a long time since the caravan has been anywhere even remotely urban. Baskets overflow with food, the wells give clear water and the air feels succulent as if it has been freshened ready for their arrival with bergamot, mint and coriander. There is so much to do that everyone forgets the heat and simply surrenders to the spectacle of what is going on around them.
In the marketplace, the party dismounts, the slaves queue to refill the water skins and refresh the animals. The free men resupply with dates and ask for news of the emir. Wellsted finds himself distracted by the constant movement of the crowd. The children’s outfits shock him with their exotic flashes of colour as they tarry looking at the collection of dusty strangers hanging around the fringes of the bazaar. Two men sit in the shade of a lush tree with boughs of trailing leaves that Wellsted cannot identify. He notices one of them, lazy-eyed, cannot rip his gaze from Zena, who is holding her camel’s bridle as she leads the animal back from its long, thirsty drink. Wellsted buys mint tea from a street hawker. He hands a cup to Zena and stations himself, like a guard, beside her in the shade of a huge palm.
‘Thank you,’ she smiles.
She tethers the beast so she can sip silently. Prettily, if it comes to that. Wellsted wishes he could get her out of sight off the street, but he cannot see how.
Kasim, a poke of honeyed nuts in his hand, strolls over. ‘We will stay here tonight and tomorrow we will make for the emir’s settlement. It is not so far – a few hours. The move we heard of has taken the camp further south but no further from Riyadh. We will be there before sunset tomorrow.’
Wellsted grins openly at this stroke of luck. ‘We have made it!’ he says. ‘Is there any news of the men?’
Kasim shakes his head. ‘Not yet,’ he says. ‘But tomorrow we will know.’
‘And we are safe here overnight?’ Since the
Wahabi
attack, Wellsted is suspicious of all strangers, even the open-faced
Bedu
. ‘They are watching Zena.’
‘You are right,’ Kasim acknowledges. ‘She is worth a fortune this far north. This is where Al Mudar said you would sell her, is it not?’ He nods towards the group of men loitering around the stalls.
‘I won’t sell her. Not for any price,’ Wellsted maintains steadily. The thought makes him angry. ‘She is to be free.’
Kasim shrugs his shoulders. ‘She is very beautiful,’ he says. ‘We will have to be watchful. Stay close.’
When, after a few minutes, one of the
Wahabi
approaches and asks tentatively if Zena is for sale, Wellsted almost spits his reply. The man backs off as if the Turk is a dangerous fool – Riyadh’s newest, crazy
majnoon.
He only asked a question.
The party settles in the shade, a couple of the servants head into the bazaar to barter for indulgences. Wellsted brings out his notebook.
‘I like that picture,’ Zena says, shyly, peering at the paper. ‘That is my camel, isn’t it?’
He has drawn the caravan across the top of the page, and it is true, you can pick out her camel. Wellsted turns over, where he has jotted some maps.
‘The scale is wrong, I expect,’ he says. ‘But it is as close as I could get it.’
‘We have come all this way?’ Zena asks.
‘Yes. Over 800 miles as I reckon it.’
Zena takes in the information. Wellsted has been mapping their journey with impressive accuracy. ‘And on this map, where is Africa?’ she asks.
Wellsted turns a fresh leaf. He draws the relative positions of the continents and shows the route of their journey north from Muscat. Zena thinks a moment. She measures with her fingers the distance of the journey from her home. It is twice as far as they have just travelled.
‘Do you miss it?’ he asks gently.
Zena hesitates. ‘I am glad I met you,’ she says.
One of the other slaves turns, listening idly to their conversation. Wellsted wants to say that he is glad he has met her too. He wants to suggest that she comes back to London with him, but then he catches himself, for that will never be possible. When you are in Arabia and the colour of a person’s skin is of little consequence to their social status, it is easy to forget that in England Wellsted’s feelings for Zena would be a scandal. In England, the girl has almost no value at all.
‘England,’ he continues unsteadily, making a mark to the north, ‘is up here.’
‘And the friends you hope to free – they are from England too?’
‘Yes.’
‘You will see them tomorrow.’
‘I hope so.’
It occurs to the lieutenant that few English women would have managed the journeys that Zena has endured, both in the desert and before. He is struck by her calmness and admires her grace. A duchess could do no better. Still, he senses in her a steely edge and he likes it. He has seen her make up her own mind in small things when others would simply do as they are told. He’s seen her looking at Ibn Mohammed as if she’d like to stab him in the heart.
‘Come on,’ he says, ‘that’s tomorrow. Let us enjoy Riyadh this afternoon.’
As the heat fades and the sun sinks, the town comes to life. The sound of the
doumbek
drums wafts from the marketplace nearby and someone is pounding a tambourine in time. Occasionally, there is singing and even if a man cannot sing or play an instrument, he still claps enthusiastically to the beat. One or two dance, fired up by the smoking of
shisha
pipes and the excitement of new company. A fellow with a basket of snakes joins the party and is welcomed enthusiastically. He soon has the servants and slaves captivated with stories of the reptiles.
‘I have one that can dance,’ he says, winding his arm high in the air to show what the snake can do.
But he will not charm it without a silver coin and the free men are not interested. No amount of coffee or dates (the only material goods the others have to hand) will convince him to bring the snake from its basket.
As the sky moves from evening to night, the streets of the little town are positively balmy. The men have eaten and drunk their fill and spirits are high. One entertainer, an acrobat, tumbles like a waterfall. Then, down an alleyway, three
Wahabi
approach with torches and Ibn Mohammed jumps to his feet in readiness with Kasim and Wellsted close behind, but in the event there is no trouble. The men are smiling and one in particular is finely dressed. Riyadh it seems, is in an unrelentingly good humour.
‘Salaam aleikhum
.’ The
Wahabi
greet the slavers and one offers them the use of an empty house in a nearby street overlooking the bazaar. It belongs to his brother who has gone to trade salt in the north. ‘It is a humble dwelling, but it will accommodate you. My family will be honoured. I am sure your home in Muscat is far finer.’
The man is in awe of the slavers – their reputation has reached even this far. Ibn Mohammed with his cold politeness says there is no need. ‘We have been sleeping in the open for weeks now,’ he says. ‘Though it is very kind.’
Kasim bows. When you are offered hospitality the custom is always to take it and both he and Ibn Mohammed demur only very slightly before, with Wellsted in their wake, they are shown the door of the vacant property – a square, pale box that runs over two storeys. It is not locked, for in a small town like this there is no need for such precautions. Friends and brothers are everywhere and while the com munity might steal from a stranger or hike prices for those coming off the sands and eager to procure the luxuries Riyadh can afford them, it protects its own.
Inside, the man lights a
naft
lamp and reveals that the place is all but unadorned – a few rugs on the floor and some cushions for sitting or sleeping. There are clay water jars, dry as bone now, and a few utensils for cooking, clearly deemed too luxurious to be taken onto the sands. To be inside, within four walls, feels strange beyond measure though the house is pleasantly cooler by several degrees than the air outside.
‘Go!’ the man ushers one of his slaves. ‘Fetch water!’ Barefoot, the man disappears, carrying the pitcher on his shoulder into the night.
‘And brothers, will you tell me of your travels?’ the
Wahabi
asks. He is young and has not ventured far. ‘Did you come from Muscat? Truly?’
The slavers nod. ‘Come.’
Kasim and Ibn Mohammed lead the man back to the group outside and drink coffee with him. The slaves are sent to buy whatever pastries are left on the market stalls. He may be a
Wahabi
but he is more relaxed than most of his tribe and soon they are talking animatedly about something – a story told so fast that Wellsted cannot follow it. Besides, Kasim waves him off quickly, for as a mere servant the lieutenant should not linger with the free men without an invitation, and they see no reason to proffer one.
Later, the
Wahabi
takes his leave, the last of the market stalls closes and the streets of the little town are all but empty. Ibn Mohammed and Kasim call Wellsted to walk with them into the safety of the darkness, a little way off from where the servants and slaves have congregated around the fire and are, in dribs and drabs now surrounding Zena and settling to sleep.
‘Tomorrow, when we reach the emir’s camp, you must stay with the girl and watch her. Between her value and the hatred of the Turks, it is best you stay out of the way. I know you want to see your friends, but you must let us undertake the negotiations.’
Wellsted hesitates. There is a lot at stake here. Over the months he has come, more or less, to trust these men, but a knot tightens in his stomach, for in truth, how can he not take responsibility? This will be the most important day of the whole trip and he cares about the captured men far more than the slavers care for anyone. They are so close now.
Kasim sees Wellsted’s dilemma immediately. ‘We are at the
soultan
’
s
service,’ he says. ‘I could have stuck you like a goat if I’d wanted to, long since. Any day on the sands I could have. And truly, my friend, this is for the best. All the men here ask about you – there have been very few Turks through Riyadh since the Circassians were routed. Your very presence renders them uneasy. The emir is best dealt with by his fellow Arabs. It is best for all of us – the men we have come for most of all.’
‘Jessop and Jones are my friends and brother officers,’ Wellsted whispers. ‘Whatever offence they have given they are my fellows. Will you promise me to do your best for them?’
Kasim and Ibn Mohammed are surprised by the white man’s dignity. Infidels are not famed for their humility.
‘I give my word,’ Ibn Mohammed finds himself saying and he does not even say it with his hand on his heart, the usual position he adopts when he has to lie.
Kasim shakes Wellsted’s hand. ‘This is how you do it, is it not?’ he says. ‘You have my word also.’ Then he takes a breath for he is about to say something that is out of character but the lieutenant has acquitted himself admirably. ‘We have travelled together. I have fought alongside you. I swear my loyalty. Have no fear.’
The lieutenant is not sure what to reply and he pauses a moment. Kasim has taken him by surprise. ‘Thank you,’ he says finally.
Kasim puts his arms around the lieutenant and hugs him, clapping him on the back. Ibn Mohammed follows suit. Wellsted realises there is something about the desert, about fighting off the
Wahabi
raid, about the shared intrigue of cloak-and-dagger disguise that has instigated this loyalty by stealth. He laughs. He is unsure what they would make of this sentimentality in London.
I will have to edit it out of my account,
he thinks.
‘We are like old women,’ Ibn Mohammed spits with a note of disgust in his voice.
‘We must sleep,’ says Kasim. ‘In the house. Bring the girl. It is safer. And tomorrow we will fulfil the
soultan
’
s
orders.’
Wellsted returns to the campfire and lingers for a minute or two before he silently motions Zena to follow him. ‘It’s best not to leave you here,’ he whispers, and they sneak through the front door of the dwelling.
Inside, Zena shivers. She has become used to the balmy, open-air nights and is sensitive now to anything colder. Kasim lies downstairs, already breathing deeply with the only lamp doused beside him. Wellsted motions the girl towards the stairs and they climb upwards into the darkness of the upper floor. A tiny window, a mere slit in the thick, cool wall, casts a sliver of shady, night-time light and Wellsted can see a further run of thin, wooden stairs against the whitewash. He motions to Zena and they climb upwards again, towards a door so small he has to stoop very low to get through. Outside, there is a flat roof and the usual startling canopy of stars. The huge, bright slice of the moon is a little way off tonight rather than suspended above the highest nearby dune. Zena walks to the edge of the rooftop, which is delineated only by a line of single bricks. She peers cautiously across it and then crouches, watching the other servants and slaves by the fire. Most are asleep but two men sit, still talking quietly about the dancing snake.
