Secret of the Sands (27 page)
The first to see what has happened is the
Tuereg
slave. He has risen to stoke the fire only ten minutes before the rest of the men get up to pray. He stands stock-still and staring, as if the scene before him is not possible. Behind his blank gaze there is a panicked expression as he looks this way and that. He feels a rising terror – as if a deadly snake has been spotted in the camp and it is his job to find and capture it. He counts the sleeping visitors again and confirms that there are far too few of them and that the distinctive outline of the slavers is not among the prone bodies scattered around the fire. He knows that the man who brings this news to the emir’s attention may, at the very least, be beaten, but with a sinking heart he wonders how the duty cannot fall to him. He will be beaten anyway if he does not stoke the fire before the men rise and make their obeisances to the east. As if to check the extent of the disaster, he trots quietly to the tent where the
Nazarene
are held and pulls back the flap. Jones’ corpse lies jackknifed on the ground, and at the sight of it the slave feels his heart turn a somersault, for he does not know that Jones died the day before. Besides that, the other infidel, the one with hair the colour of mud, is definitely missing. The slave’s duty is invidious, but, cursing, he knows what he has to do.
As he turns, afraid, back towards the camp, he runs straight into one of the emir’s free men, who has risen early and come to bring water to the
Nazarene
and clean them before, one dead and one alive, they will be handed over to the slavers. The man is glad to be rid of the white men, for looking after them, if you could call it that, has been an odious duty for the past months, and he walks jauntily, happy that today will be the last time he will be troubled by it.
‘What are you doing here?’ he grabs the
Tuereg
by the ear.
The slave’s legs give way under him. ‘The visitors are gone. Some of them. And one of the
Nazarene
. Gone.’
The free man turns to the camp – he had not looked closely at the figures on the ground for his eyes were still heavy with sleep and he was set on what he had to do. Now he focusses. Then he shouts a curse and runs for the emir’s tent, hollering as he goes to call his brothers to arms.
At once, from all quarters, men emerge into the blue shadow of dawn, every one of them holding a drawn blade. The slaves who have been abandoned by Ibn Mohammed and Kasim spring into action too. Their first thought is that their missing companions have been stolen and slaughtered. They draw their knives and, surrounded, fall into a defensive formation – a rough circle spiked with sharp protuberances on every side. Everything happens very quickly and the shouts are such a babble that it is hard for one side to tell what the other is saying. One of the emir’s men kills a slave, flat, and for a moment it looks as if there will be carnage, but the emir’s voice rings out and his natural authority is such that everyone freezes. In the tent flaps, women hold their children close.
The emir surveys the scene. It does not take a
fakir
to know what has happened. He roars with anger and then motions at the remaining members of Ibn Mohammed’s party.
‘Bring them forward!’ the emir orders.
The slaves are herded together.
The emir makes a movement with his hand, and the men are willingly disarmed. They are, after all, slaves not soldiers.
‘Where are your masters?’ he demands.
The men are silent. They look at the ground. The emir jabs at one of them so quickly that it is difficult to see how he could have drawn his blade. Doomed by his proximity, the fellow makes a gurgling noise and falls in a sliding sheet of blood.
‘Where are your masters?’ the emir turns to the others.
One musters the courage to speak. ‘We do not know. They were gone when we awoke.’
Then they all fall to their knees and one or two of them whimper, for now they are at the emir’s mercy. Their masters are gone.
‘The
Nazarene
?’ the emir enquires.
The man who raised the alarm tells him the news.
‘And the
habshi
?’
‘She is not here.’
‘Go,’ the emir orders, with a flick of his chin. ‘You must check the camels.’
In less than a minute two men return with the casket of
talers.
The emir throws open the lid and kicks the side of the box in temper, sending a shimmer of coins cascading onto the ground. They have left the corpse. It seems to him that it is likely they found out late at night that one of the men was dead. This box contains far more than the thousand Marie Theresa dollars agreed upon. Ibn Mohammed and Kasim have simply changed the deal with the changing circumstances. The emir eyes the slaves before him, counting their value as he enquires how many camels were left behind. It is a good enough showing for one half-dead
Nazarene,
though he wishes they had left the girl. However, to his surprise, he finds he is not as angry as he might have been. It passes across his mind that perhaps he is getting old. Or perhaps he can understand why this has happened. It will be easy to find them, if he decides to. They will have gone east, of course, and, he considers a moment, that is not the direction of Nizwa.
Ever mercurial, the emir has been considering his plans overnight. He wants to go home. He wonders how this story will play with the elders in his family’s town and decides that if he portrays the events correctly, he can be a hero. The slavers, great men though they are, were so afraid of his wrath that they have run like cowards into the night. In time, he may dine with the
soultan
himself and convey an air of superiority in the matter, for the pride of Muscat have not dispatched their duty with honour. The thought pleases him. The
soultan
is one of the richest men on the Peninsula, but the emir surely has this over his reputation. Still, he’d like to be sure what happened.
‘Look for signs in the sand,’ he says to his eldest son.
‘Let me track them, Father,’ the boy pleads.
This is the chance for which the child has been waiting. If he can track down the thiefs-in-the-night and avenge the slight, his name will be made. The emir, however, looks nonchalant. The boy’s need to establish a reputation is not of interest to him – he is not dead yet.
‘Come back to tell me,’ he says. ‘I will decide when we know their direction.’ At that, his son disappears.
The emir takes a deep breath. This is not how he intended to start his day.
‘You,’ he snaps, picking one of the slaves from the line-up – one who so far has managed not to piss himself. The man raises his eyes and it is clear that he is expecting to be killed. He steps forwards slowly with as much dignity as he can muster.
‘Make coffee,’ the emir orders, and with those few words the relief of the entire camp is palpable. The women dis appear back into their tents and the men lower their weapons.
‘And, Sharif – you must count this,’ the emir tells his closest henchman.
Even without knowing their number, the generous chest of
talers
is enough bounty to boast of and, the emir considers carefully as he pictures his homecoming to Nizwa, no one ever need know what they agreed about the girl.
For a long while, Wellsted is unsure whether the doctor will survive the journey. They have driven the camels hard, with only the briefest respite, for five days and nights. No one has had more than three or four hours’ sleep at a time. Jessop manages to digest his milk, however, and he seems to be getting stronger, despite the travelling and the un relenting heat. The only shelter they can afford him is a ragged
hauza
draped across his forehead. He dozes, tied into his saddle with a rough string made of plaited rushes, and yesterday he pointed his thin finger with an eagerness that he had previously not been able to muster and asked for a piece of
khubz
from the fire. He ate it to no ill effect along with two dates and he has taken bread with his milk ever since. There is a slight flush today on his thin cheeks though, of course, that may simply be the searing temperature. Much of the time he sleeps or, more accurately, passes out. It is, Wellsted reassures himself, all part of the doctor’s recovery.
As they crest the final hilltop they look down on what is a very welcome view: they are a couple of miles from the coast, and the party can see the bright gem of the ocean. Ibn Mohammed is, as ever, vigilant. He has sworn he will kill the girl when he finds her and he intends to make good on his promise. There is, however, still no sign of her as they take in the vista before them. Wellsted nudges the doctor and points at the expanse of water. Making it to Bombay now is surely a real possibility; the doctor beams.
‘James,’ he whispers. ‘I want to wash properly and to shave. Whenever we can.’
Wellsted nods. He is glad Jessop is feeling strong enough to be troubled by his appearance. However hard he tries, though, he cannot stop thinking about what has happened to the girl. Given Ibn Mohammed’s fury, her complete disappearance is perhaps fortuitous.Wellsted only hopes she turned in the right direction. Zena is no fool, he tells himself. When he showed her the maps he had made, she could read them.
At night he feels a strange bond with her, as if he should somehow be able to tell where she is by mere thought alone. His imaginings spiral into crazy plans of taking her to London, though he knows it would be impossible to introduce Zena into society either as his slave or as his lover. A black servant is just about acceptable, but he does not want to oblige Zena to be in service to him and the disapproval at a hint of anything more than that would make a happy life in England impossible. Wellsted lets his mind wander and toys with the most forbidden word of all:
wife
. The girl has touched him deeply. There is something in the connection between them that he cannot explain and that, alongside the fact he feels he has disgraced her, makes him dream of a legal union, something binding, something that can offer her real protection. It fires him and, almost for the first time, he finds he wants something for himself – something private, that does not pertain to his family, his father, his grandfather, society or the needs of the Bombay Marine. He wants Zena to marry him and be his alone.
Wellsted knows no white person married to a black and is well aware that such a scandalous undertaking would sully his reputation for life – he has not even heard tell of a docker who has attempted it, never mind one of His Majesty’s naval officers. As an up-and-coming gentleman, such an action would be unthinkable, particularly for a man in his position with little social standing or rank. He must conform and the truth is that in London he has no stomach for taking on such a challenge. To admit to sleeping with her would be considered bad enough. However, he is coming to an accommodation in his daydreaming, for in Arabia their union would be not only accepted, but considered quite normal. What seems strange, in fact, is that at home they believe this land less civilised than England when here a slave can marry a master, a brown man can marry a white women and Zena can be his wife.
He lingers over the memory of Zena’s pitch skin covered by his milky body and he feels a frisson of excitement, though the girl’s spirit is as intoxicating as her beauty. He will install her either here or in Bombay and hopes that by Arabic law she can become his wife, though in polite society, or rather, amongst Europeans, they will never be able to admit it. Arabia is far more accepting in that regard than Wellsted’s home can ever be. That does not matter now, however. He simply wants to cosset her. If only she has got away safely and he can make it possible. If only she will accept him for, his conscience twinges, he has let her down. He has not only presumed on the girl but then forced her on her own resources which, luckily, have proved formidable so far.
As they make for the lower ground, he affirms for the umpteenth time,
I would certainly feel it if she came to any harm.
He has, of course, no grounds for this and ignores the shame he feels at his unscientific ponderance. People are lost on the sands with regularity and he knows from the
Bedu
that in general they do not come back safely. Even though it’s only a glimmer, the thought fills him with dread and he pushes it away. She is tough. She has water, food, a good camel and ample money. She knows how to travel.
‘What
are
you daydreaming about?’ Jessop teases him.
The doctor cannot help but notice that the lieutenant is more often than not a million miles away and several times each hour the man turns and stares at the expanse of land behind the caravan, as if he is expecting to hail a hackney. It is most disconcerting. They have stopped now and dismounted halfway to the village but Wellsted continues to check behind. The lieutenant says nothing about Zena. A man’s business is his own in these matters.
‘I am thinking of my duty,’ he teases the doctor back, his voice serious.
It is, after all, his duty to keep his word. He made his promises willingly and so far he has failed in keeping them. He has little choice in what he can do now. He knows he cannot send Jessop back to Muscat alone, for the doctor is still far too weak, and even if he turns back to find Zena, most likely Ibn Mohammed will insist on accompanying him. No, Jessop’s life is in the balance and one duty rubs uneasily against the other with the certainty of the doctor’s survival and the ingrained loyalty to his family and country winning out, at least for the time being. Still, when they do return to Muscat and his charge is in safe hands, Wellsted is resolved to turn back immediately towards the desert and retrace his steps to find her.
The party makes its way down the hill in the direction of the little harbour and the shores of the Red Sea. It is a sound, well-protected spot at the base of the Gulf of Bahrain. The ocean here is the colour of sapphires and it comes as a shock after months of muddy well water and a vista composed exclusively from a limited spectrum, the colour of sand sculpted into dunes by the wind and seen in varying degrees of bright light. As in Riyadh, the houses are fashioned of a pale, baked mud and in the distance there are a variety of promising looking vessels of all sizes that are potentially for hire or even for sale.
No more than a mile off, Wellsted notices Kasim and Ibn Mohammed whispering to each other and the servants shifting as if uncomfortable. Something is amiss. The lieutenant sits up in his saddle, nervous that they have found her. He will have to fight them both, in that case. He is ready to do so. When he sees where they are pointing, he peers again at the houses. From here it is clear the village boundary is closed. A makeshift camp has pitched on the outskirts and even from this far away they can hear the keening sound of mourning women. Wellsted feels relief. He has little confidence that he would win a knife-to-knife battle with the slavers. Still he is not prepared for the danger of what they have encountered.
‘There is plague,’ Ibn Mohammed pronounces. ‘They have closed their gates and locked themselves in, waiting to see who Allah wills to live. See,’ he points and explains for the benefit of the
Nazarene
, ‘on the outskirts, their relations watch to see if there is life inside the infected houses from the smoke of cooking fires.’ Here he makes a wisp-like gesture. ‘Many people will die. We cannot break the boundary.’
‘Can we still . . .’ Wellsted starts, but the look in Ibn Mohammed’s eyes stops him from even finishing the question.
They will not be rocked to sleep on the swell aboard a ship tonight. It is far too dangerous and they will have to carry on down the coast to find passage.
Turning south and feeling unaccountably heavy, the caravan travels one more day and night, following the shoreline. Now there is plague in the miasma, when they see other travellers there is no question of stopping. After the elaborate hospitality of the desert, it goes against the grain to shun company, but the mounted men pass each other at a distance and at most there is a nod and a troubled smile. The sound of the waves, never far now, lulls them to sleep at night – a noise so strange after all these months that they are kept awake by its novelty.
‘I wonder if it
is
plague,’ the doctor muses. ‘Of course, it’s far more likely smallpox. People make all kinds of mistakes in diagnosis. Anything with a pustule is called plague on the Peninsula. I don’t expect they have the vaccination here, though. Furthest it’s come is Turkey. Have you been vaccinated, old man?’ he asks.
Wellsted nods. All midshipmen are vaccinated with cowpox, they have been for many years now.
‘Well, that’s both of us immune. I wonder, do you suppose I might be able to examine some of the patients?’
Wellsted laughs out loud. ‘Look at you. You’re eight stones at the outside, you’re a sleeping shadow who isn’t even capable of staying awake for more than a few minutes at a stretch and you can’t eat meat because your stomach is too weak. I’m not sure you’d survive the examination of an Arab with plague, old man. Even the strong die of it, don’t they? What if it isn’t smallpox and you aren’t as immune as you think?’
Jessop grins his eerie smile into the darkness. ‘Oh, if you think I got through the ministerings of that emir bastard only to catch a bubo or two, you are very much mistaken. I never catch anything, James. Never have. It was one of the reasons my father thought I should study medicine. And besides, if I am going to die of anything, I wouldn’t choose plague. I’d go for tuberculosis. Highly fashionable – artists and poets die of tuberculosis, think of Keats and Henry Purcell – John Calvin, for heaven’s sake – with all the romance of a direct line to God. No one dies of the plague these days. Really. I’m invincible. I’m sure of it.’
Wellsted laughs. Jessop’s spirit is admirable and he can’t refuse him. But the doctor’s arms are still stick thin and he wheezes sometimes when he moves too quickly.
‘I’ll try to keep you fashionable, Doctor, don’t you worry.’
In the morning, they arrive at the next town down the coast. Here, too, the gates are closed. This time, however, the purpose of the quarantine is not to contain the infection but to keep out all visitors who might carry it. Standing on the high walls, two guards agleam with weaponry bear over the party with menace. They are so comprehensively swathed in dusty fabric that their eyes are not clearly visible.
‘Go away!’ they call, waving the visitors off with drawn blades.
Imshi. Imshi.
‘None can enter here.’
Kasim shouts back, trumpeting their names, their mission for the
soultan
and explaining that they avoided the plague town – they did not go within half a mile of it, he enunciates with precision. Every one of them is healthy (here he swears an oath) and all they seek is to do business – hire a
dhow
and buy some slaves, if the citizens have any to spare. The guards stop shouting. They confer a moment and then disappear from sight without a word. It is a promising sign.
Wearily, the servants dismount into the shade of the town walls. They brew coffee over a tiny fire while the caravan waits for the pronouncement. Such decisions are the province of headmen and councillors. It takes twenty minutes or so before an old man appears on the battlements.
‘Your name?’ he shouts down.
Ibn Mohammed obliges and trumpets his mission for the
soultan.
‘He will send you a thousand thanks for any help you can give us. We seek only to trade. We have coin.’
The old man, an
imam,
peers. ‘You have not visited the plague town?’
‘I swear it, brother.’ Ibn Mohammed touches his heart. ‘We came from the sands.’
The
imam
considers this a moment. ‘I met the
soultan
once,’ he replies.
A minute later, the studded, wooden gates creak open to reveal the dusty, barefooted swordsmen. Behind them, an array of stony-faced citizens emerge from their houses to see the visitors, for these are the first men to enter the town in a month. There is a subdued atmosphere as the guards lead the caravan to the headman’s house – he is older than he appeared at a distance and is sporting the longest beard Wellsted has ever seen. The
imam’s
black eyes gleam like polished jet, embedded in a swathe of brown wrinkles.
The elder motions in greeting, his dry palms outstretched and his simple bright, white
dishdash
dazzling. The travellers do not know it, but this impression of spotlessness is illusory. The
imam
is a wily impresario who wrings the best from every situation. After the
simoom
he appropriated fifty camels and over a hundred goats that belonged to the dead. His men scavenged in a radius of forty miles and, with the old man’s guidance, the little town worked away quietly and swelled its coffers while the survivors of the storm wandered half-blind and half-mad. The
imam
lives in a modest house and does not trumpet his money. He despises the
soultan
s and emirs who keep vast
harims
of women and decorate their homes with unnecessary ornament. He is, in Western terms, a dangerous kind of monk, some kind of Jesus. Now he greets the visitors solemnly.
‘We have only fish,’ he says, humble in tone. ‘But you are very welcome.’
Supplies in the town are running low, or so it would seem. The animals are herded to the south, well out of the way. The villagers fortify what they have by casting their nets a few hundred yards out on the water, for in time of plague no man will go further. The
imam
explains that the day’s catch is shared between everyone but with supply lines cut off there is little else but some flatbread, milk and, he explains as if he is embarrassed, a few eggs, which he has reserved for the pregnant women and nursing mothers, sick children and the very old. As he tells of the impending want, he eyes the slaving party, costing every piece of their clothing and appraising the camels with an expert eye. He is adept at all forms of judgement.
