An Explanation

“THE LONG, EXACTING MARCH”

I am still pondering over this philosophy when I become aware that there is just a faint glow of light commencing to show in the east. It is the first indication of dawn.

Ever so slowly it increases till the distant line between earth and sky begins to form.

In a little time it is discerned that the light is coming from behind the earth, below the far eastern horizon.

Gradually the stars go out, and the earth becomes mistily unfolded.

We are alert to know the prospect of the landscape—hopeful of change to cheer our way. But, when the full expanse is revealed, the morning is as yesterday—no “land” in sight—nothing but the same old vast endless “sea” of sand that has come to be so familiar and so haunting.

But, with the light, comes a lifting of spirits. The men commence to chatter; and someone breaks into hopeful rhythmic song—a love-lilt of a tribe, reminiscent of home-fond memories. Others pick it up, rough-tuned and jazz-fashion, and a gay voice laughs after it has inserted a sly line or two of misquotation to point the words to a comrade’s sweetheart.

And so are rough men wooed to cheerfulness, even in time of stress, by the soft magic hand of morn, and its influence, that resembles the touch of a woman’s caress. For a space, all too short, the caravanlivesat its best, careless of aught but the hour.

Meanwhile, the first flush of day creeps on. And soon, away at the sand-end “Edge of the World,” the great golden sun, till now the hidden source of day, blazes suddenly into sight, in the east, shooting coloured shaft-rays in the sky by the very glory of its brilliance.

It is the signal for Mohammedan prayer, and I order the caravan to halt in consideration of the religion of my followers.

All except the sick man, Sili, move out clear of the camels.

Facing the east, where far-off, in another world, lie Mecca and the Shrine of the Prophet, the men remove their sandals and, barefoot, reverently pray.

First they stoop to touch the ground with the palms of the hands, then pass them, dust-begrimed, over the face before they meet again, in an action that resembles washing. Then, standing, the prayer is commenced. Soon, the figures bend down to sit on the sand while continuously muttering softly modulated prayer, and dipping the forehead in the dust in moments of stress, or in gesticulations of respect.

There they sit for a little, stooping anon as before.

Again they rise upright.

Again they sit down. And then a gradual repose sets in.

Finally the prayer dies out restfully, and, by the subtle composure of the figures, the onlooker is conscious that the minds of the natives have settled in peace.

In a little they rise and rejoin the caravan; and the camels move on.

Let no man idly misunderstand or underrate the faith of these peoples of the East. It is a tremendous faith—and no single day may pass without deep worship and thought of Allah. It may be, in the Sahara, the faith of the primitive, the faith of an outdoor people, but it is complete and ever present. And who of us dare say so much of the Christianity of modern civilisation?

And this strength of religion has its political significance. Notwithstanding the French influence, and the venturings of missionaries, in parts that surround the Sahara, I am confident that, throughout the length and breadth of the desert to-day, its scattered peoples have, at heart, only the faith of Islam, and really admit true friendship and allegiance to the Caliph, and to none other. Wherever the wayfarer goes he will find the inner mind of the nomad turn ever to one magic name—“Stombole”—the Turkish centre in Constantinople, and the home of the Caliph.

Meantime, the sun has come completely into view; a great glowing orb, looking twice the size it will appear when later it is high in the sky.

The time is 6 a.m. For an hour more we travel in comparative coolness; but by 9 a.m. we are into the full heat of day—that awful, dreaded heat, that constantly torments and sets out, without pity, to subdue and conquer the stoutest. In the desert the sun is master, cruel and remorseless beyond belief, with bleaching blaze that eats up life and kills. For the rest of the day the caravan must pass under the rule of its greatest enemy.

Throughout the morning the camels travel well and the spirit of the men is fairly cheerful. Though there is not much talking among them now, as they sit huddled on their camels with their gowns thrown over their heads as covering from the sun. They know well that it is wise to conserve their strength, for long, weary hours lie ahead.

I scan the caravan as we plod monotonously along.

We have been travelling close on two hundred days, and the ranks are sadly thinned, though the journey is not yet half completed.

There were sixteen natives at the start: now there are only six—Elatu, Mohammed, Sili, Gumbo, Sakari, and Ali. Most of the others have gone through fear of the dangers of the journey, lack of heart for the hard, endless work, physical weakness, and incurable sickness. (Two of the latter, left behind in good hands, to recover, when next heard of, had died).

There had been forty-four camels at the start; now there are but twenty-one. I have long learnedto know them by their native names. Those that are with us still are:

NOMAD AND CAMEL-MAN

I am conscious, as I look the caravan over, of a soft-hearted affection towards both man and beast. They have all served loyally, and have given of strength to the uttermost. Moreover, the whole caravan has come to embrace that free-and-easy, comprehending comradeship, that belongs to the wise when long on the great Open Road.

We have, therefore, as a body, lost all rawness and idle ornament. The weaknesses in our composition at the start have been found out and gone under. Battered, but hardened, we are travelling now as a band complete and experienced through grim wilderness of naked reality. The men that remain are of sterling quality, and all, except Sili, look like lasting through any amount of hardship.

But it is not so with the camels. Good as they are, they are not built to endure continuous work for ever; and the greatest struggle and sacrifice are theirs. No matter how much one may try to save them, the pitiless country claims its victims from their midst. All along the trail that lies behind I have witnessed their comrades go out, and know that, inevitably, others must follow. Indeed, too well I know that few, if any, will ever reach the goal; and that it will be left to others—that must be found among natives in remote oases—to carry us through to the North African Coast—if we are ever to reach our distant destination.

But all wayfarers in the desert become fatalistic, and the many misfortunes of the trail teach thetraveller to consign all disasters to “Kismet,” or “Mektuib”; for it is learned, sooner or later, that this is a land where Destiny irrevocably takes its course, whatever man’s hopes may be. Wherefore the deep eastern sadness that is found in the hearts of the nomads of the desert, and that touches the soul of the white man in the end.

As if to bear out my thoughts, trouble rides upon us.

The caravan has halted suddenly. Something is wrong in the rear.

Gumbo calls out that Mizobe is down.

We find that he has collapsed wearily on the sand and does not want to move. He is far through, but we cannot camp and wait beside him. So in a little time he is persuaded to rise to his feet again; and the caravan moves slowly on.

But it is not very long before the poor old fellow gives up again, for his is a losing fight in the full heat of the midday sun. We try for a little to encourage him to get up, but to no avail. He is past further struggle.

I order the caravan to move onward, and remain behind with Elatu, beside the prostrate animal, for I cannot leave the poor brute to die a slow, lingering death, with the agony of pitiless surroundings holding finality immediately before his eyes.

When the caravan is distant there is a single revolver shot—and we are one less in our band.

Even although it is only an animal that has gone, Death casts a shadow that disturbs thehuman mind; and Elatu and I ride forward to rejoin the caravan with a pang of sadness in our hearts.

But such feelings are soon deadened of further thought. Shut out and overpowered by the throbbing, awful heat of the day, which has now reached its worst.

It is a heat that is tremendous; unbelievably trying, unless one has experienced it in actual fact. The full rays of the noonday sun blaze directly and intensely overhead, scorching the earth as a furnace blast; while hot-baked desert sands reflect the heat like the tray of an oven. It is small wonder that the caravan, oppressed by a pitiless force that attacks both from overhead and underfoot, wilts as a thing that is withering and sorely exhausted. In naked truth, man and beast of our little band are at the full mercy of a tyrant, and toil, yard by yard and mile by mile, slowly onward, sticking to the allotted task, because it is fated so to toil in the great ways of the desert. The shoulders of the camel-men are drooped languidly, and no one speaks; while head-coverings are drawn more and more closely about their faces in attempt to fight off the sun and protect eyes that are wearied to actual pain by the dazzling, incessant glare on the sand.

Thus is the desert at its worst, and its unspeakable heat.

But, through all, the camels keep ever on, though ever since the sun’s great heat set in theirpace has slowed down—and, now, they are just crawling onward on their patient unquestioned task.

Hour after hour the monotonous ride continues. Our band, a mere handful of outgone men who for the present are victims of circumstance destined, as it were, to travel the very plains of Hell, steeped in awful heat and desolation, from which there can never be real escape until that distant “Dreamtime” when we may come to pass out and beyond to a promised land where weary limbs and weary minds may lay them down and rest.

About 4 p.m. Tezarif (the camel that has contracted an ugly swelling in one of her feet) is lagging badly, and pulling hard on the rope that secures her to the camel in front. I shook up Gumbo, dozing and listless from long, comfortless riding, and bade him dismount and get beside the ailing camel to encourage her on and to keep up with the others.

Obediently the man jumped down, and I dropped back with him so that I might talk and keep him to his irksome task. Thereafter he remained beside the camel, encouraging and driving it to keep up with the caravan. And when Gumbo tired, another took his place. So, at the expense of considerable effort, the sick animal is kept to the trail.

And in this way the long afternoon passed on, until, at last, the sun commenced to relax its grip on the earth, and gradually the caravan recovered a certain measure of wakefulness.

Yet man and beast show that they are now very tired. None of the brief, bright gayness of the morning is present, even although the merciful retreat of the sun makes the evening hour delicious and tempting. The fact is that spirits are wearied beyond caring for aught on earth—except a longing to rest and sleep.

About 6 p.m. the hot day closes over the heated earth, as the tyrant sun sets in gorgeous beauty amidst rainbow tints of every hue that mistily touch both earth and sky with magic wand, and belie the terror of that pitiless reign that has passed.

And again the men dismount and pray.

On, through the dusk we travel—and into the night. Body and soul ache for the word to halt and camp; but still we hold on. All know the need that drives us to uttermost effort—need to reach water—and the goal still a long way ahead.

The night is strangely still. The desert’s lack of living creature is more intimately apparent now than through the day, for the vast range of our daylight surroundings has narrowed to our immediate circle, which is no more than a thin line of passage cleaved through thick banks of blackness. In our path no jackal cries; no hyena laughs. Neither does ground-bird twitter, nor wings of night-flight ruffle the air. Nothing moves, nothing lives. We can almost “hear” the silence, it is so acute; and the noiseless feet of the camels move over the sand as if they were ghosts, afraid of disturbing a land of the dead.

If you have ever waited, with deep anxiety, for a precious sound—the cry that tells you that a lost comrade has been found, or, a sound-signal that fulfils a vital appointment after it has kept you, tuned to expectancy, waiting overlong in suspense—you must know one of the greatest joys that can fall on human ears, when, by a sudden whim of chance, the world gives up the message you have prayed for. It had gone 9 p.m. when I drew my camel to a halt, and shouted “Subka!” The effect of revival along the caravan was startling. It was the glad signal that everyone was aching for—the signal that meant “Camp at last” and “Rest.”

And a great sigh of gladness went up from the hearts of the weary men, as they dropped stiffly from their camels and started to unload.

There was no need to urge the camels to get down. We had no sooner halted than each sank to the sand, leg-weary beyond the telling—for sixteen long, weary hours their feet had never ceased to pass onward over the desert.

We had camped in our tracks; there was no choice of ground—nothing but endless sand, duneless and featureless.

Stiffly the men moved about; they were overtired for the work of unloading and accordingly it moved slowly. When everything was off-loaded the poor fellows sat in dazed fashion on various bundles of kit gaining a breathing spell of rest for deadened minds and aching limbs, utterly carelessof further effort. Gladly would the most spent of them sleep as they are without food, without water and without a thought of the morrow; overpowered by the forces of utter fatigue. But Elatu and I are watchful, for we have been through these experiences before, and we shake them up to keep awake. The last tasks of the camp are completed—a bale or two of rough Asben hay, carried for the camels, is unroped and fed to them, a ration of water issued to the men, while, one by one, small husbanded camp-fires broke into light, speedily to cook a frugal meal, devoured by men who needed it sorely.

Half an hour from the time of halting the whole camp is wrapped deep in sleep—a dog-tired and dreamless band, at rest at last; mercifully unconscious of the toil that is past or the toil that awaits them on the morrow.

THROUGH TO WATER AND RESTING FOR A DAYTHE CAMELS ARE AT THE WELL IN THE BACKGROUND

THROUGH TO WATER AND RESTING FOR A DAY

THE CAMELS ARE AT THE WELL IN THE BACKGROUND

Theforegoing is an account of a day in the world’s greatest desert; a day in the heart of the Sahara—travel at its worst; not at its best—thatis what I have endeavoured to describe.

We were then about 200 days out, and the camel-caravan travelled 405 days before the end, so it may be that I have learned a little of the desert.

Should that be so, and should pen be able and reader forgiving, I humbly try, in the contents of this book, to set down something of a little-known land; going swiftly to the subject I would reveal, and not slowly along the trail where the footprints of my camels were sometimes all that there was to record over oceans of wasting sand.

In a previous book,Out of the World, I dealt with the journey of a 1st Saharan Expedition so far as the region of Aïr: wherefore this work endeavours to touch almost entirely upon new ground (beyond Aïr) explored on my last and more comprehensive expedition across the entire Sahara.

CHAPTER IIIA SHIP OF THE DESERT

CHAPTER IIIA SHIP OF THE DESERT (AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL)

“I amnot riveted nor screwed together, neither am I steel plate nor seasoned timber: wherefore I am not like ship of the sea in physical construction.

“But I rock when under way, and am thin ‘keeled’ when gales blow, so that ungenerous men-people say that I am clumsy and gawky.

“However, we animal creatures think slowly but with wisdom, and we know that men-people are apt to hurry to opinions that have, sometimes, little solidity. Therefore, sinceappearances do not matter at all in the land I travel, I treat their gibes with silent scorn, for the great desert asks only one thing: Endurance—aye, endurance to the point of death.

“Wherefore my rivets and screws and tested ‘steel’ lie not on the surface, but in joints and sinews developed through stern adventurings that demand that a craft be strong-rigged, and stout of heart, and fearless of the uttermost seas of the desert.

“And from this you may have gathered that I am only a camel.

“Regarding my early history: I was born on the plains of Talak among the camps of the Tuaregs. I was soon taken from my mother, since her milk was wanted for food for the camp. I bellowed wildly in distress for some days, but to no purpose: I was staked beside a tent and thenceforth watched and hand-fed by women-people. I can remember that I was often very hungry, even in those days, and called lustily whenever it was anywhere near time for me to be brought my morning or evening milk. I was very young and very uninstructed then, and was not to know thathungeris that which is of greatest import in the lives of all camels.

“For a long time I stayed beside the tents of my masters. Then there came a time when I had grown big enough to be allowed to graze near camp through the day, but I was never left out overnight, because of the ill-scented animals I feared.[2]

“While I was still little I was taught to follow the caravans on short journeys, running alongside my mother without rope or hindrance of any kind.

“Then came a time when I had to bear a grass-padded saddle and a small weight on my back. But I was growing big and strong by then, and, after the first fear had passed, I did not mind the task greatly, especially as I was allowed to join the other camels more often and keep close to my nice old mother.

“One day, when I was six years old, there arose much stir in camp. The men-people commencedto gather in all camels, and I knew there was something afoot. At first, we camels, putting our heads together, hoped it was only to be a movement to new grazing ground. But we soon decided otherwise, during the few days that followed, as we watched our masters busily working with saddles and roping bundles, while strangers came in to join them from other camps. Then, one morning, at dawn, after much noise of loading, and chatter of farewell, we were all tied in line and set out from the camp of Talak; leaving behind only the women-people and their children and a few old men-people.

BRANDED

“Although as yet inexperienced in great distances, like all my kind, I required no master to instruct me in sense of direction; and I soon knew that we were heading south, which is the direction of least dread in the teachings of camel lore.

“But I soon lost interest in everything about me under the weight of terrible fatigue; for, day after day, we had to travel perpetually over hot sand and beneath wearying, fiery sun, kept sternly to the trail by our travel-wise hard-riding masters. We had little rest, and not much time to eat. All grew fretful, and plaintive lowings pleaded with the men-people for consideration, but they knew their task better than we, and kept on unflinchingly, though no less tired than ourselves.

“We camped fifty nights on that journey, and I will never forget it. For the first time I learned what desert travel really meant.

“At last, after travelling out of the desert and through country with many trees, the like of which I had never seen at Talak, we reached a strange town, and the men-people camped. There our loads were undone and we were all turned free to eat our fill and rest to our heart’s content. Men-people called the town Katsina.

“Eventually I came to stay there for many moons, for, before my master went back to the Plains of Talak, in the course of his tradings he made a bargain whereby I was exchanged for six lengths of cotton clothing that he desired for the people of his tribe. And thus I came to pass into the herds of the Emir of Katsina, one of the greatest men in the land.

“For two years, thereafter, I had an easy life, being asked to make but few journeys to Kano, Zaria, and Sokoto, in country that was not of the poverty of my old home. Wherefore I had nearly always food to eat, and accordingly grew big and strong.

“But at the season when water fell from the clouds, in that country, I was not happy. It was cold and wet to sleep at nights, and flies tormented me that were not of the desert, so that at such times I longed for my old wind-swept home at Talak. That is the season when I, and all my comrades, pine to go north into the desert, like the addax and oryx of the bush-scattered plains.

“While I remained at Katsina the men-people who guarded me called me Zaki.[3]And on festivaldays I was bedecked with a bright-coloured saddle and head-rein, and made to run, with others, as fast as ever my legs could go. When I was in front, when we finished running, my master was very pleased; so I learned to be in front very often, for I was given nice things to eat afterwards—grains that the men-people grow that are passing sweet to taste.

“ALL MY COMRADES CARRIED STRANGE BOXES”

“But there came a time when this life of ease and pleasure was all abruptly changed. Like most drastic changes, it was utterly unexpected. I and my comrades were browsing peacefully in the bush, as usual, one morning, when men-people of the Emir appeared suddenly among us with ropes, and a certain gravity of expression. After considerable consultation, while doubtless appraising our condition, they began to pick out those of us that were the strongest; with the ultimate result that some twenty of us, including myself, were banded together and driven off into the town.

“By eventide we were marshalled in a caravan camp of strangers, and the Emir’s men-people awaited the pleasure of the chief of the gathering. When he came forward I saw that he was not like the people of Talak or Katsina, butwhiteas the sand or the midday sun. This stranger looked us over one by one, lifting feet, feeling joints, and prying into mouths, the while he asked questions of our guardians in their own tongue, but in an unusual voice. When he came to me he seemed highly pleased, and asked more questions than ofthe others. I thought, with out-bubbling pride of youth, that this was because I was of the uncommon white colour, that all chiefs prefer to any other, and clean limbed, and coming now to the years of my prime. But one of my comrades was also white-haired, and there again the stranger paused longer and asked more questions, so that I decided that my vanity had been premature.

“The upshot of the examination was that three camels were discarded and sent away with the Emir’s men-people, while all of us that stayed behind were taken over by the white stranger.

“Next day we were roped and trussed and hurt for a few moments by a stinging fire,[4]from which there was no escape; and thereby knew that we had irrevocably changed masters, for only at such times, when it is necessary to denote ownership, are we treated in this manner.

“This marked the beginning of my experience as a true traveller of the desert. My new master’s caravan left Katsina almost at once, and headed north—and I was to come to learn that we were ever to hold in that direction; even to the region of Talak, and leagues upon leagues beyond. It was, in fact, only the commencement of many, many moons of mighty travel of duration that few camels experience in a lifetime and but seldom survive.

“I was given a load to carry during the first few days; a strange box-load, that frightened me to begin with. But the men-people of my new master,who were the same as the people of Talak, knew their work and watched me, and soon they made my burden fit comfortably, so that I learned to travel without fear. Nearly all my comrades carried similar box-loads, which was a curious thing in our eyes, because they were so different from the bales of the men-people of our land.

“MY NEW MASTER RODE ALL THAT DAY—

—AND THAT WAS THE BEGINNING OF A GREAT FRIENDSHIP”

“At that time my master was riding a brown camel, the one that had brought him to Katsina. But I had noticed that he watched me while we plodded along the trail, and, therefore, I was not altogether surprised when, before starting one morning, I was taken before him without any load. Perhaps the men-people of the Emir had told him I could run very fast and had been ridden; for, in a little, his riding-saddle was placed on my back, made to fit me, and strapped securely. I made no move in protest, for past experience had taught me that it is far better to be ridden by a master than to carry a load that is nearly twice the weight. While I was still seated on the ground he came and spoke to me in his strange voice, while, for the first time, I felt his hand caress my neck and knew, even in that momentary touch, that he was not cruel.

“My new master rode me all that day—and that was the beginning of a great friendship. He would go nowhere without me afterwards, and I cannot count the days I carried him over the unfrequented seas of the desert, either with the caravan, or on long hunting trips that he sometimes made alone.

“At first my master did not ride so easily as the camel-men of our land, being more stiff and ungiving of poise; but, as he became familiar with my gait, that alien insensibility passed and we travelled as one.

“I found I had one fault that annoyed my master. Through being badly frightened, when young, by an evil-smelling animal that pounced at me, I could not refrain from being startled whenever I saw any black object close to me on the sand. At such times I would suddenly plunge madly and retreat, while my master said quick words and bore hard on the rein. Then he would persevere until he had forced me to go nearer and nearer to the object I dreaded; until I could see that it was only a tree-stump or a rock and could not harm me. Nevertheless, it took me many months to overcome this impulse of fright, though, always, my master persevered to show me there was no actual danger.

“It was chiefly on account of this trait that I was given the name by which my master called me:Feri n’Gashi, which, I believe, meant ‘White Feather’ in native tongue, and this, in his language, was a term applied to anyone showing signs of cowardice. But the name also referred to my white coat of hair. My master often spoke in a curious tongue that was foreign to me, but, as time went on, I came to understand that he gradually lost all thought of associating my name with any insinuation of fear.

“Moon followed moon in the wilderness, andtime, and close association, brought thorough understanding. And I came to love my master, as I am sure he loved me. He was often kind in the hardest hours of stress, when I was grievously hungry and leg-weary, and apt to lose heart altogether in the interior of the terrible desert. He would dismount for an hour or more, sometimes, and search in the surroundings for a few handfuls of vegetation which he would bring to me to eat, while I kept on along with the others of the caravan. And at nights, if he could manage it, he brought me tit-bits that I saw the others did not get.

“And so it came about that I always watched my master wherever he happened to be; and that was in many places, for he was ever restless, and never idle. When we were turned loose at an encampment, to find what grazing we could pick up, I would raise my head whenever I saw him afar off, returning on foot from hunting for meat, or the curious things that he gathered—all of which had different and alarming scents to my inquiring nostrils—and when he reached the encampment I would leave my comrades and go to see him, for he would surely pat me kindly, while, sometimes, when there was sufficient water, he allowed me to drink from the basin he had washed in; and that was sweet in the desert, although the portion was ever so little.

“As the long, long journey progressed, through distance of time too great to count, many of my comrades weakened and fell out, and some died;and there came a time when only a few were left. Like all my comrades, I had vastly changed by then, being lean, and tired out by constant strain of travel, lack of sufficient food, and worry through fear of the unknown country we traversed. And, at nights, in my anxiety, I sometimes sought my master when he slept, and, after sniffing him to be assured of his presence, would lie down to rest near at hand, gaining thereby confidence and some comfort.

“It was during this period of ever-increasing strain that my master met with a distressing accident. To carry the loads of my dead or exhausted comrades, some fresh camels were collected from men-people of a rocky land of name I did not comprehend. They were animals of a wild region, and had been long free on the ranges, so that they greatly feared the hand of men-people. When they first felt the weight of my master’s boxes on their backs they plunged wildly in all directions, and everything was scattered to the ground. Yet patiently the men-people worked with them, coaxing and replacing the fallen loads; until, finally, we were all led into line ready to start. But just at that moment there was further disaster and a wild stampede, and my master, holding hard to the head of the maddest brute of all, was suddenly kicked to the ground as the animal plunged free. And there he lay, while others rushed blindly over him in their consternation, trampling him underfoot, until a quick-witted camel-man rushed in and dragged him clear; which, mayhap, saved his life.Then it was seen that he was bleeding profusely, and could no longer walk.

“HE STROKED ME OFTEN WHILE THE LOADS WERE BEING TAKEN AWAY”

“For some days afterwards he lay and could not move, and I wondered what would become of my master.

“When next I saw him he had long sticks below his arms and walked strangely and slowly. On recommencing travel he could no longer ride in the saddle, because of a helpless leg, and was placed, with soft clothing, on the top of the boxes carried by one of my old comrades. For the first time since the start I was without my master. But he did not give me a load to carry, nor let another take his place, and I was allowed to walk behind him with the empty saddle.

“So soon as he could manage, he came to ride me again, and I was glad. I knew he was not strong then, for I could feel a strangeness in his seat, and was therefore gentle on the trail, so that I might not jar or hurt him.

“But he jumped from the saddle no more, not even to hunt, as had been his constant custom up till then. Yet, so far as lay in his power, he was restless as always, and still tried to search in strange nooks and corners, when they chanced by the trail. He accomplished his purpose, to some extent, by riding me where he wanted to go, and making his noise-piece go off when he sighted that which he sought. I know I was clumsy on such occasions, and that my master was not altogether happy in this makeshift way of hunting, but he made the best of it.

“It was about two months after this time that the desert ended, and the remnants of my master’s caravan crawled into a strange town where the people were foreign to me, as was the scent in the air. I was alone, except for my master, for none of my comrades of Katsina were left; and I had a heavy heart. I could see my master was happy, yet strangely sad. He stroked me often while the loads were being taken away and stacked in a pile, and I felt he would have liked to break down the barriers of dumbness and articulated words in my own language. And I understood, and rubbed my soft nose against him.

“After a time the men-people gathered us all together and led us away down the street of the strange town. We had gone but half-way when my master’s servant came running after us, and I was taken back to him.

“He stood beside me and stroked me ever so gently, and I knew, then, that his heart was heavy as mine. And then I was led away down the strange, unfriendly street again.

“I was terribly tired: I knew, somehow, that I would never see my master again—and that is all I remembered.”

Feri n’Gashi died, without the slightest sign of illness or pain, about one hour after our parting, marking one of the saddest experiences in my life and the passing of one of the noblest animals that ever lived.

CHAPTER IVTHE GREAT SOUTH ROAD

(Large-size)

CHAPTER IVTHE GREAT SOUTH ROAD

Twice, in the course of my travels, I have found myself in great wildernesses that gave me no field of comparison until I turned to thought of the boundless sea—and then I had a simile that was almost complete. These wildernesses were: Arctic Canada and the Great Sahara.

With desire to describe the Sahara, and its ocean-like vastness, I have sketched a map that lies before me (see opposite page)—and I am disappointed. It is only some inches square. My Sahara that, for the sake of lucid explanation, I want to represent as the ocean, could be covered with a dinner plate; and might be a duck-pond, or a trout lake with an island or two, if, for a single moment, I forget the niceties of proportion and scale. That, precisely, is an influence on the senses that it is well to guard against because of the possibility of it turning the mind from reality, for, no matter how willing and piercing the scrutiny, this insignificant little sheet of paper can never be the actual Sahara.

And, after all, it is only theRealthat matters; particularly to the frontiersman who lives closeto the earth and beyond the ken of the subtleties of Civilisation, for he sees, with the eye of the untrammelled, the dominion of the world’s outer ranges and the bigness of things as they are. Wherefore, with pen directed by hand accustomed to rope a load, coax a rein, fondle a rifle, heal a wound, or kindle a camp-fire, I set out, as an awkward man of the outdoor places, without geographical technicalities, to describe the Great Sahara as I have come to read its character in the wake of many a trail over leagues of intimate sands.

Let us first endeavour to picture something of the vastness of the Sahara. In approximate area—excepting the Libyan Desert—it is about eighteen times larger than Britain and Ireland and about half the area of the United States. Large as that may seem, it must be taken into count that there is a sentimental vastness far beyond that—the sentiment of environment. To illustrate this. Suppose that one sets out to travel for a day, or a week, or a month, through rich, inhabited country with good roads, and with the good things of life always closely about one. Is it not the case that the plenitude of the countryside pleases to such a comforting extent thatDistanceis prone to be unesteemed, and unthought of as a cause for anxiety? Consequently, under such circumstances, allfear of distance, andthe significance of overpowering immensity, do not enter into calculation. But it so happens that that is a tremendously importantfactor, which must always be reckoned with, in any considered treatment of the Sahara, where conditions are entirely opposite. No one would hesitate to cross America to-day, but could anyone contemplate a journey in the Great Desert without, at once, being confronted with lively dread of its vastness and desolation? Indeed, so strong is this influence that the eventual result, once one enters that mystical land, is that the mind becomes almost disqualified to reckon in terms of numerals. All that one is constantly aware of is, that limitless leagues of drear desolate sand lie ahead, and that, no matter what effort is made, no matter how well the caravan travels, the twenty or thirty odd miles that are the record of a day’s endeavour leave one apparently in the same position as before, with horizon, and sand, and sky no nearer to the vision than from camps that lie on the trail behind.

In that prospect there is, surely, a sentiment of the temperament of the sea, in likeness of boundless, unchanging, unconquerable leagues. But the sea swings and curls and breaks in foam, and is alive; whereas the sands of the desert lie ever expressionless and dead. So that, if we accept that in majestic space the sea and the desert are the same, we still have to admit that the lassitude of the desert multiplies the seeds of desolation to such an extent that, almost tangibly, certainly sentiently, it enlarges its empty vastness.

Wherefore I am confident that it is in all suchintriguing influences that we find the very essence of the desert’s desolation and magnitude of space.

That it has a very real vastness that intimidates is borne out, in our everyday life, by the accounts of tourists who have travelled in Algeria, or elsewhere, and who have been a few days south of, say, Biskra by camel, and who return to recount how they have seen the Sahara. How many such tourists have stood on this mere threshold of a mighty sandscape, beneath the Aurès Mountains, and conjectured on the immensity of the Great South Road that points the way to the heart and the mystery of another world, unyieldingly remote, and not as theirs.

And what happens then? Why is it that we do not have record that some of those tourists have got down from this doorstep of Biskra and set out into the Great Desert? If it was a fair land that lay before them most surely they would flock upon the way. But it is not so, and no foot makes the move. They have viewed an awe-inspiring immensity that casts a deadly spell of dread. And, one by one, year by year, they are repelled and go their way;back through the friendly mountains. After all, this is far from astonishing of strangers, for they but express something of the deep-rooted, superstitious dread of the desert which is found in the soul of every native who lives anywhere within reach of its borders, or in its interior.

Furthermore, it may be well to remember that the Sahara is a land of great antiquity, that takesone to realms of Biblical times. Steeped in the religion of Islam, it knows little perceptible change to-day, and is not on a plane with the modern world. Wherefore, even if we only set our minds back in keeping with a not very distant period of the past, it is not difficult thus to find another simile to the sea in picturing that it was only a little more than four centuries ago that the Atlantic Ocean probably held a similar dread of immensity before Columbus discovered America.

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