Chapter III
Africa! Far away I sighted the purple shadow of the land of mystery, the low-lying coast-line and interior wall of mountains behind which lay the vastness of Sahara.
We struck the coast at Djidjelli, further East than we had anticipated. Captain Triplett, my navigator, said that compasses always acted queerly in these waters which he ascribed to the influence of occult desert powers, outraged divinities and the like.
“It’s them genuses,” he said, “they raise hell with yer.”
Be that as it may we had to veer sharply in order to make Algiers on the third day after clearing from and out of Monte Carlo. The harbor showed no trace of the Undine and according to the port-authorities she had not touched there, nor was there any record of the Wimpole party at the leading hotels or travel bureaus. They were gone,swallowed up in the immense folds of the silent, brooding Southland.
“Meet me in the desert!” Lady Sarah’s parting cry rang in my ears. In it I detected the first note of appeal suggesting her growing need of me, a need of which she was perhaps still unconscious, but which might grow to who knows what. Why was I so certain she referred to Sahara, the Great Desert? I can not say, but it seemed inevitable that she would choose the largest; it was in keeping with the majestic, monumental nature of the woman. Whatever the reason I was positive that somewhere in those uncharted wastes I should find her. Facing them, as I stood on the quarter-deck with Whinney, my acting-first-officer, I pressed Lady Wimpole’s letter in my breast pocket and whispered softly “I come, my lady of the desert, I come.”
“How?” said Whinney.
“Nothing.” I answered shortly and went below.
Another certainty, arrived at during my trans-Mediterranean trip, loomed large in my plans. Re-visiting the desert after an absence of ten years I decided that I should assume my title of Sheik of the Moplah Bedouins which had been conferredupon me in recognition of having saved a native caravan from certain death due to the sudden failure of the wells at the Oasis of Sus.
Since that memorable time the Sheik, as an institution, has acquired a tremendous sentimental and romantic value which fell in admirably with my quest of the remarkable English woman who had yanked me so forcibly from the spiritual doldrums.
Tunis, Algiers, Fez and Agadir, all the important North African towns—now do a thriving business in Sheik-outfitting, the bazaars ringing with the cries of costumers, burnous-boys, veiled Circassian beauties with their trays of turbans, dealers in arms and accoutrement, saddle-sellers and camel merchants. But I needed none of this shoddy material designed entirely for the tourist trade. What I wanted was the real thing.
Two days after my arrival in Algiers I stumbled on Ab-Domen Allah, the faithful dragoman who had dragged me through Turkey and Arabia in 1902. It was sheer Traprock luck, for he was the very man I wanted, capable, resourceful and devoted.
Over a glass of coffee on the terrace of the Di Baccho I explained my needs.
“Si, si,” he hissed, patting his huge bulk delightedly. “I understand. I will attend to everything. See, we had best do thus and so.”
Dipping his fore-finger in the coffee he drew an excellent likeness of Africa on the tablecloth.
“We will enter here at Rascora on the very western edge of the desert. You can go round by water: I will meet you there with the camels. Thus we will go through the desert the long way. You will miss nothing. You are looking for something, eh?”
I hesitated, but he burst out laughing.
“A woman! Aha, my friend. You have not changed since I met you in Skutari! You devil!”
Drawing back from the table in order to give himself room to shake he trembled like a mountain of jelly until a glance at his wrist-watch told him it was the evening hour for worship. He could not kneel but turned his chair toward Mecca and performed the orthodox calisthenics in a sketchy but satisfactory manner.
Personally I was more than willing to let him have his laugh in exchange for having secured his services. Matters of detail could now be dismissed. At dawn the next day I weighed anchor for Tangier and points west, slipping rapidly downthe Moroccan coast with short stops at Mogador, Rio de Oro and, finally, Rascora.
Rapid though the trip was it took the better part of a fortnight allowing Ab-Domen no more than time to assemble our caravan. During the interval I took up the re-study of the desert languages, Berber, Arabic, Bedouin and the main Sudanese dialects all of which I had fairly well mastered before we rounded the gleaming cliffs of Cape Blanco. I also gave considerable time to exercising myself in the florid style of speech without which no Sheik is really a Sheik. During these periods of study I would stand near the capstan and apostrophize my lost lady in the most poetic terms.
“O thou! beautiful as the dawn and rounded as the bursting lotus-bud whose voice is as the cooing of a dove calling gently to its mate, lo, from afar I come to thee.”
These proceedings astonished the crew. In fact I overheard Captain Triplett say to Whinney, “The old man is cuckoo,” to which the flippant first-officer replied, “You gushed a geyser.” I had to reprimand them both severely.
Another exercise to which I devoted considerable time was the practising of that stern, aloof mien which is the proper Sheik-ish attitude. Thiswas very hard for me for my nature is genial. However no one ever heard of anyone clapping one of these portentous Arabs on the shoulder with a “Hello, Sheik; how’s tricks.” That sort of thing would mean death according to modern literary standards and I endeavored to convey this idea to my companions whenever they were familiar which was always. I almost precipitated a row when I said one day to Whinney, “Peace, thou ill-begotten son of a base-born mule-driver.”... He seized a belaying pin with the light of mayhem in his eyes and I had great difficulty in explaining the purely figurative meaning of my words.
In private, however, I continued the practise of speeches redolent of the great eastern orators who are pastmasters of the art of saying it with flowers, while I also steeled my heart to a cruelty toward all woman-kind which is an absolute prerequisite of successful Sheik-ery. Often, in the privacy of my cabin, I would seize my rolled-up steamer rug by the throat and cry harshly “So, I have you at last, have I? Remember, woman, you are mine! ... all mine.”
As may be imagined these studies filled in the time admirably and made me mad with longing for the actual desert voyage to begin.
Two days after dropping anchor Ab-Domen appeared on the outskirts of Rascora winding his way down from the Atlean foot-hills, bells tinkling, flutes playing and camels smelling. He had assembled a complete outfit equipped with everything for an indefinite stay in the desert.
I had decided on camels as our motive power for I loathe such modern contraptions as motorboats in Venice and motor-trucks in the desert. I couldn’t quite fancy myself as a Sheik arriving on a truck and crying “Lo! it is I, the son of the Eagle.” Besides I would probably get my burnous caught in the fly-wheel which would be a pity as it was really magnificent, a true Moplah Sheik costume, pure white with a number of tricky gold ornaments.
Ab-Domen had done a gorgeous job in selecting my camels. During his shopping he had been accompanied by my friend Herman Swank, for many years my super-cargo. We stood together as the herd wound its way into the village under its own power and Swank gave me some interesting information on their fine points.
Qualifications to be considered in buying a camel are water-and-weight capacity, hair-crop and stupidity. The first consideration is howmany miles per gallon can the beast do. Curiously, just as with automobiles, dealers invariably lie about this point.
Weight-capacity is tested by loading the camel until he can’t get up and then removing small amounts until hejustcan, thus giving the traffic all that it can possibly bear.
The hair-crop of the camel is one of the staple harvests of the desert area and is of tremendous value for the local manufacture of ropes, shawls, blankets, etc., and for the export trade in camels-hair brushes, used the world over by water-color artists. Water colors are, of course, out of the question in the Sahara where there is very little color and almost no water.
Stupidity, the last named attribute, is an essential in a good camel. Fortunately most of them possess it to an amazing degree. Without it no animal would think of entering the desert let alone carrying the crushing burdens which are imposed upon them. Ab-Domen had combed the country for stupid camels, among which the bactrian booby-prize went to DeLong, my own mount. Whinney bestrode Rufus, a reddish beast while Swank called his Clotilde in memory of a young woman he had known in the LatinQuarter. They were all single humped Arabians which are superior to the Asiatic variety, just why I can’t say. After having ridden them a week it seemed impossible that they could be superior to anything.
We left Triplett at Rascora whence he was to take the Kawa round to Cairo. I allowed six months for our trans-African trek. Two days after his departure we faced the East in the conventional caravan formation, led by an ass, the emblem of good luck. Our number had been increased by approximately sixty nomads of my own tribe, the Moplahs, a number of minor-Sheiks and a rabble of desert folk, Walatu-s, Gogo-s and Humda-s. To these must be added thedoolahsor black camel-boys who closed the file while Ab-Domen, on a powerful camel, held a roving commission, darting hither and yon, or to and fro as needed.
Our first objective was the Oasis of Arag-Wan. For several days we passed through tiny desert villages, Uskeft, Shinghit, Tejigia and others. There was no trace of the Wimpoles, but in this I was not disappointed. It would have been humiliating to find her too quickly, to stumble upon my lady on the first day out, to say “Oh,thereyou are!” and to have the whole episode over. I felt sure that our meeting would be more dramatic.
AB-DOMEN ALLAHDr. Traprock’s faithful Dragoman who, as the author says,“literally dragged” him through the desert.
Ab-Domen Allah
On the fourth day we faced the empty desert. Never had I felt more completely a Sheik. My friends Swank and Whinney had caught my enthusiasm as well as my mode of dress and address.
“Hail, El-Swanko!” I would say; “Son of the well-known morn and illustrious evening-star, may thy blessings be as the hairs on thy camel’s head and thy bed as soft as his padded hoof.”
“Back at you, Dhubel-dhub, Sheik of the Moplah Chapter,” my friend would cry, being a bit unpracticed in the fine points of sheik-talk. But he came on rapidly and was soon able to converse fluently in the ornate hyperbole of the country.
The desert and the ocean have been frequently compared but happenings of the next few days were to bring this comparison home in no uncertain terms. Swank and Whinney suffered acutely from their first experience on camel-back and even I felt somewhat uneasy until I became accustomed to DeLong’s pitch and roll. The “ship-of-the-desert” is no idle poeticism.
Beyond Tejigia we were completely out of sight of water. No trace of passing craft brokethe horizon about us. Like an admiral at the head of his fleet I scanned the sky anxiously. Three days passed. On the fourth a violent head wind forced us to tack in order to keep the sand out of our eyes.
The next morning I rose to face a titanic struggle between earth and sky. The desert was rising. After a three-mile advance I gave the order to heave-to. The camels were anchored fore-and-aft, to long tent-pegs. The sand became increasingly fluid. Low ripples running over its face rapidly rose to waves which dashed their stinging spray over us with the rasping hiss of a devil’s hot breath. In the lulls I could hear the wails of thedoolahsand the bubbling roar of the camels.
Ab-Domen fought with the resource and bravery of a great commander. We were now all crouching low against the blast.
Suddenly I saw Ab-Domen point excitedly toward the East. A gigantic tidal-wave of sand was bearing down upon us through the murk. Of what followed I can only give a dim impression. I heard the parting of several anchor ropes and the screams of the anguished beasts as they and their riders were swept into oblivion. Then,as if to administer thecoup-de-grace, two enormous sand-spouts loomed up from the south, hideous spinning wraiths, whirling dervishes of the desert, personifying all the diabolic malevolence of this ghastly land. One missed us, passing within a few yards of DeLong and myself; the other moved directly across the compact mass ofdoolahswho lay screaming in its path. I had a glimpse of a score of black bodies sucked upward into the swirling column, spinning helplessly in the vortex with arms and legs out-thrust, grasping or kicking at the empty air. Then all was dark.
Five hours later I dug myself out of suffocation and sand. The storm had passed. Twelvedoolahsand two camels were missing. The rest were badly disorganized. But the desert lay, calm and peaceful about us. We had weathered the storm and, to my infinite joy, there, in the distance, the white walls and bending palms of an oasis gleamed in the evening sunlight—the wells of Arag-Wan. We had won through!