The Monsoon (118 page)

“Yes, boy. I speak Arabic.”

“Your name is Tom?”

“Damn you, you little scamp.” Tom frowned and stepped towards him threateningly.

“How did you know that?”

“Tom, wait!” Sarah stopped him.

“She is a girl.”

Tom stared hard into Yasmini’s face, then laughed. He snatched off her head cloth and her long dark hair tumbled around her shoulders.

“So she is, and a mighty pretty one too. Who are you?”

“I am the Princess Yasmini, and I bring you a message from Dowle.”

“From who?”

“From Dowle.” She looked desperate.

“Dowle! Dowie!” She repeated it with different inflections, but Tom shook his head, puzzled.

I think she is trying to say Dorry,” Sarah intervened, and relief rushed across Yasmini’s face.

“Yes! Yes! Dowle! Dowle! Your brother.” Tom’s face turned ugly, swelling with dark blood.

“You come here to mock me. My brother Dorry has been dead these many years. What are you playing at, you little bitch!”

Is this a trap?” he shouted into her face.

Her eyes welled with tears, but she drew herself up and began to sing. Her voice was hesitant at first, but then it steadied, became sweet and true, but she sang in the semi-quavers of the Orient, alien to the European ear. The tune was twisted and the words were a parody of the English language. They all stared at her, in total incomprehension .

-Sarah gasped, “Tom, it’s “Spanish Ladies”. She is trying to sing “Spanish Ladies’T She rushed forward and embraced Yasmini.

“It must be true. Dorian is alive, and the song is his sign that this girl comes from him.”

“Dorian! Is it possible? Where is he?” Tom grabbed one of Yasmini’s arms and shook it violently.

“Where is my brother?”

It came out in a garbled rush of words. Yasmini started another sentence before she had finished the one that preceded it, tripping over her tongue in her haste to tell it all, and leaving much out, so that she had to go back and start again.

“Dorry needs help.” Tom picked out the essentials, and turned to Aboli.

“Dorry is alive, and in dire straits, and has sent them to fetch us.”

“The horses are still saddled,” Aboli said calmly.

“We can ride at once.” Tom turned back to Yasmini, who was still gabbling out her story to Sarah.

“Enough, girl!” he stopped her.

“There will be time later to tell the rest of it. Can you take us to Dorry?”

“Yes!” she said vehemently.

“Batula and I can lead you to him Tom leaned down from the saddle to give Sarah a final hasty kiss.

For once she had not insisted on accompanying this expedition.

Tom should have realized by this unusual behaviour and by her recent reticence that something was afoot, but he was so distracted that he gave it not a thought.

“Make sure All Wilson keeps everyone aboard, and all secure. When we return we will be in great haste, like as not with half of Araby hard on our heels.” He gathered the reins, lifted his horse’s head and looked around for the others.

Yasmini and Batula had already started, and were halfway up the first hill above the Lunga river. Luke and Aboli were hanging back, waiting for Tom to catch up with them. Everyone was dressed in Arab robes and led a spare horse on a rein. Tom clapped his heels into his horse’s flanks, and waved back at Sarah as it bounded forward under him.

“Come back soon and safe!” Sarah called after him with one hand pressed lightly to her stomach.

It had taken them four days, riding hard, changing horses every hour, using every glimmer of light from dawn to the brief African dusk, to catch up with the Arab column.

Tom had ridden beside Yasmini all the way, and they had talked until their throats were dry with the dust and the heat. She had told him everything that had happened to Dorian since she had first met him in the zenana until his arrest by Abubaker only days before. This time her story was coherent and lucid, touched with humour and pathos, so at times Tom laughed with delight and at others was moved to the brink of tears. She showed him what type of man Dorian had become and made Tom proud.

She told him of her and Dorian’s love for each other, and in the process won Tom’s affection and liking. He was enchanted by her pretty sparkle and her sunny nature.

“So now you will be my little sister.”

He smiled at her fondly.

“I like that, effendi.” She smiled back.

“It makes me very happy.”

“If I am to be your brother, you must call me Tom.” When she reminded him of the fight in the pass, and explained how he had cut down his own brother, nearly run her through too, he was smitten with remorse.

“He never showed his face! How could I know?”

“He understands, Tom. He loves you still.”

“I might have killed both of you. It was as though something outside me held my hand.”

“God’s ways are marvelous, and not for us to question.” She led him through the complicated maze of royal Omani politics, explained how they had been caught up in them, and the consequences to Dorian of Zayn al-Din’s accession to the caliphate.

“So now Abubaker takes him back to Muscat to face the spite and vengeance of Zayn,” she said, and the tears ran down her dusty face.

He leaned across and patted her arm like a brother.

“we will see to that, Yasmini. Please do not weep.” They cut the wide deep spoor of the marching Arab and closed in on it until they could make out the army dust cloud above the forest. Then Batula went ahead while the rest hung back and waited until night fell. He would be able to infiltrate the loose mass of veiled riders without drawing attention or suspicion.

just as the sun was setting he returned along the back trail.

“Praise God, alSalil is still alive,” were his first words.

To Tom, the use of Dorian’s Arab name still sounded strange.

“I

have seen him from afar, but did not try to reach him. They bear him on a drag litter behind a horse.”

“How strong did he seem?” Tom demanded.

“He can walk a little,” Batula replied.

“I saw Ben Abram help him from the litter and lead him to the tent where they have him now. His right arm is still in a sling. He moves Slowly, stiffly, like an old man, but he carries his head high. He is stronger than when we left him.”

“Praise God’s Name,” whispered Yasmini.

“Can you lead us to his tent, Batula?” Tom asked.

Batula nodded.

“Yes, but they guard him well.”

“Have they put chains on him?”

“No, effendi. They must consider his wound enough restraint.

“We will bring him out this very night,” Tom decided.

“This is how we will do it.” They approached the camp from upwind so that their horses would not smell those of the Arabs and whinny to them. They left Yasmini to hold them, and went forward to the edge of the forest. The camp was as murmurous as a beehive and the air was blue and thick with the smoke of hundreds of cooking-fires. There was constant movement grooms and slaves coming and going from the horse lines, men drifting into the surrounding bush on personal business and returning to their sleeping mats, the cooks bearing steaming rice pots through the camp and doling out the evening meal. Few sentries were set, and little order enforced.

“Abubaker is no real soldier, Batula said contemptuously.

“Al-Salil would never allow such lack of discipline.” Tom sent Batula into the camp first, and the rest followed him singly at intervals, moving casually, veiled and robed with their weapons concealed. Batula went towards a hollow in the centre of the encampment where a leather tent had been set up in isolation from the others.

In the firelight Tom saw that the scrub around it had not been cleared, but that at least three guards were posted around it. They squatted with their weapons across their laps.

Batula settled down under a twisting-branched morula tree, a hundred yards from the prison tent. The others came up casually and joined him, squatting in a circle and spreading their robes around them until, in the semidarkness, they seemed like any of the other small groups of Omani soldiers scattered about, talking softly, drinking coffee and sharing a pipe.

Suddenly there was a stir as a group of three splendidly apparelled Arabs came striding towards them, followed closely by their bodyguards. Tom felt a flutter of panic, certain that somehow their presence had been discovered, but the men passed close by them and went on towards the tent.

“He with the blue head cloth and gold rope is Prince Abubaker, the one I told you of,” whispered Batula.

“The other two are al-Sind and bin Toti, both fierce soldiers and liege men of Abubaker.” Tom watched the three enter the tent in which Dorian lay prisoner. They were close enough to hear the murmur of voices from behind the leather walls.

Then there came the sound of a blow and a cry of pain. Tom half rose to his feet, but Aboli reached out a hand and drew him down.

There was more talking within the tent, then Abubaker stooped out through the fly and paused to look back.

“Keep him alive, Ben Abram, that he may die with more passion.” Abubaker laughed and came back, passing so close that Tom could have touched the hem of his robe.

“Salaam aliekum, mighty lord,” Tom murmured, but Abubaker never glanced in his direction, and went on to where his own tent stood in the centre of the encampment.

Slowly a hush settled. Voices died away, and men curled up in their shawls around the fires and the flames burned down to ash. Tom and his men lay down around the small fire Batula had built, and covered their heads but did not sleep. As the fires died, the darkness deepened.

Tom watched the stars to judge the passage of time. It went infinitely slowly. At last he reached across and touched Aboli’s back.

“It is time.” He stood up slowly and moved towards Dorian’s tent.

He had been watching the sentry who sat at the rear. He had seen his head droop, then come up with a jerk, only to droop again.

Tom walked up softly behind him, leaned over him and struck him across the temple with the barrel of his pistol. He felt the thin bone break and the man sagged forward without a sound. Tom squatted in his place, assuming the same position with the man’s musket across his lap.

He waited for a long minute to make certain that there was no alarm.

Then he eased himself forward on his haunches until he was close to the rear wall of the tent.

He had no way of knowing if they had posted a guard inside the tent at Dorian’s bedside. He wet his lips, drew breath, then softly whistled the opening bar of “Spanish Ladies’.

Someone stirred behind the leather wall, and then came a voice he did not remember. It was not the voice of the child Dorian had been when they had parted. It was the voice of a man.

“Tom?”

“Aye, lad. Is it safe within?”

“Only Ben Abram and me.”

Tom slipped out his jack-knife and the leather wall of the tent fell apart beneath the blade. A hand reached out to him through the gap, pale in the starlight. Tom seized it, squeezed hard, and Dorian drew him through the gap into the tent where they embraced, kneeling chest to chest.

Tom started to speak, but his voice was choked. He hugged Dorian with all his strength, and drew another breath.

“God love you, Dorian Courtney. I know not what to say.”

“Tom!” Dorian reached up with his good hand and seized a handful of the thick dust-stiff curls at the back of his brother’s head.

“It’s so good to see you.” The English words were alien on his tongue, and he was weeping, overwhelmed by the weakness of his wound and by a towering joy.

“Don’t do that, Dorry, or you’ll set me off,” Tom protested, and pulled away to wipe his eyes on the back of his arm.

“Let’s get you out of here, lad. How badly are you hurt? Can you walk if Aboli and I help you?”

“Aboli? Is he here with you?” Dorian’s voice trembled.

“I am here, Bomvu,” Aboli rumbled beside his ear, “but there will be time for all this later.” He had dragged in the fallen sentry through the cut in the tent wall. Now Tom and he rolled the Arab onto the sleeping mat, and covered his body with Dorian’s woollen blanket.

In the meantime Ben Abram was helping Dorian into his robe, covering those shining red curls with a turban.

“Go with God, allsalil,” he whispered, and turned to Tom.

“I am Ben Abram. Do you remember me?”

“I shall never forget you and your kindness to my brother, old friend.” Tom gripped his arm.

“All God’s blessing be upon you.”

“You have kept your oath,” Ben Abram said softly.

“Now you must gag and bind me, else Abubaker will treat me cruelly when he finds alSalil gone.” They left Ben Abram trussed up and took Dorian through the back wall. Outside the tent they lifted him to his feet and supported him between them. Then they started slowly through the sleeping camp. Batula and Luke Jervis went ahead, moving like dark ghosts, and they skirted one of the campfires. A sleeping Arab stirred, sat up and stared at them as they passed close to where he lay, but let them go unchallenged, sank down to the earth again and covered his head again.

“Bear up, Dorry,” Tom whispered in his ear.

“Nearly out of it.”

They went on towards the edge of the forest and, as the trees closed around them, Tom almost exclaimed aloud with relief, but at that moment a harsh voice challenged them in Arabic from close at hand.

“What manner of men are you? Stand, in God’s Name, and deliver yourselves.” Tom reached for the sword under his robe, but Dorian caught his hand and replied in the same language, “The peace of Allah on you, friend. I am Mustapha of Muhaid, and I am devoured by the dysentery. My friends take me to a private place in the bush.”

“You are not alone in your suffering, Mustapha. There is much of this sickness in the camp,” the sentry sympathized.

“Peace upon you, and on your bowels also.” They moved on slowly. Suddenly Batula appeared again out of the night.

“This way, effiendfl” he whispered.

“The horses are close.” They heard the stomp of a hoof, and suddenly Yas, mini’s small figure detached itself from the darkness and raced to Dorian. They clung to each other, exchanging embraces and soft, loving whispers until Tom drew them gently apart and led Dorian to the strongest horse. Between them Aboli and Tom boosted him into the saddle, where he swayed unsteadily. Tom tied his ankles together with a leather thong stretched under the horse’s belly, and they swung Yasmini up behind him.