E. C. Tubb - Sands of Destiny: A Novel of the French Foreign Legion

ALI BEN SIRDIR

THE journey to Sidi Baba was even in the best of times, not one to be undertaken lightly. Between the fort and the Arab town stretched miles of barren desert without a single waterhole or oasis to refresh the weary traveller. Now, on foot, with scant water and with three people unused to desert conditions, Corville at times doubted whether or not they would succeed or leave their bones to whiten on the burning sand.

Three days after leaving the doomed fort he knew that, as things were, they would never make it. Alone he and the sergeant could have won through but the women, especially the older Miss Carson, weakened fast beneath the twin perils of thirst and sun. At evening camp Smith called Corville to one side and spoke to him in a low tone.

The women cant make it, sir. The man is doing his best and may pull through but his sister, despite what she says, cant go on much further.

And the other one, Miss Carson?

Smith shook his head then, as Clarice came towards them, began to speak in Arabic.

One day more. Then she will either have to be carried or die.

Talking about me? Clarice smiled at the two men. Beneath her thick veil her face was strained and revealed her weakness and Corville knew that as things were she would die before reaching the Arab town. He looked helplessly at the sergeant then, as Clarice continued to stare at him, forced himself to smile.

We were saying that it wouldnt be long before we arrived.

Is that true? Clarice shook her head. Dont bother to lie to me. Were in trouble, arent we? If you didnt have us along youd be able to make much better time. And the water, that isnt going to last out either, is it?

It will last, said Corville, but he didnt mention that it wouldnt last more than another day, and even then he and the sergeant had given their shares to the women. Clarice stepped up to him and gripped his hands.

I guess that I havent had a chance to thank you for saving our lives yet. Now I want you to know that I appreciate all that youve done for us. One day, perhaps, Ill be able to show you just how grateful I am.

Forget it. Corville squinted at the sun and nodded to the sergeant. Well, we may as well push on while its cool. If we travel at night and avoid the heat of the day we wont suffer so much.

Tiredly they fell into step and began the long, monotonous march towards the distant town. It was sheer slogging footwork, up one swelling dune to the crest, and then down the other side They walked through a wilderness of sand, marching across what appeared to be a frozen sea without as much as a blade of grass to break the eternal emptiness. They walked like things of wood, their legs numb from constant effort, their tongues swollen from lack of water and their muscles weak from lack of food. On and on, fighting a desperate race against time, against. the time when they would fall and be unable to rise again. Corville remembered his own recent experience in the desert and shuddered to think of the same fate befalling the young American girl. As he marched he found himself thinking more and more of her, how soft her eyes were, how sweet her lips, how nice it would be to lounge beside her or some cool seashore with the murmur of the waves reaching their ears and the cool, so cool spray dashing against their faces.

He stumbled and became aware that Smith had halted the little party.

What is it?

Something ahead, sir. A camp, I think.

A camp? Immediately Corville was wholly alert, his wound-induced weakness forgotten as he realised what the sergeant had said. Toureg?

I dont know. It may be a party of the raiders making for Sidi Baba, or then again it could be a nomad tribe or even a camel caravan. The sergeant looked thoughtfully at the young officer. Shall we take a look?

Have we any choice? Corville glanced to where Clarice supported the almost fainting Miss Carson, herself supported by her brother. He lowered his voice. We cant go on like this another day. Well have to chance our reception at his camp. Maybe well be lucky but if they recognise us....

He let his voice fade into silence but the sergeant understood. Death was a better fate than that the women should be taken and sold on the slave block at one of the mysterious towns of the deep interior.

Corville raised his voice and spoke to the others.

Listen. Theres a camp ahead of us. I do not know whether we shall be received as friends or as enemies. Remember that, under no circumstances, are you to speak. You, Dick, are supposed to be insane. You can mumble if you like but be careful not to say anything you should not know. You two women are my wives. We are a small party travelling to Sidi Baba. Leave the talking to me and do not display any curiosity. He nodded to the sergeant. Right. Lets see what happens next.

The camp was a small one consisting of a few tents, some horses, and a couple of pack camels. Corville walked directly towards the solitary guard who, as he saw the strangers, called out and levelled his Jezail at the young officer.

Peace be with you, greeted Corville sonorously. Where is your Sheik?

Sheik Ali ben Sirdir is within his tent, growled the guard. Who seeks to disturb his rest?

A traveller who, with his servant, his wives, and one who is the ward of Allah has been grievously beset and robbed of his camels. Corville lifted his hand and cursed the non-existent robbers with the full fury of outraged virtue. May Shaitan visit them in darkness and may dogs despoil their graves. May their sons bay at the moon and their daughters all be barren. May their wives spit in their beards and....

Peace, laughed the guard. Indeed thou curseth with the full fervour of an old man. He gestured towards a camel-hair tent. The Sheik is within. If you be as you say then he will comfort thee. The Jezail lifted. In the name of Allah....

Corville sighed with relief as they passed the watchful guard. They had stumbled on one of the small, nomadic tribes who, unlike the warring bands, lived humbly and quietly, glad of the protection of French law. Later, when the women and the supposed ward of Allah had been fed and given tents in which to sleep, Corville and the sergeant dined with the old Sheik Ali ben Sirdir.

It was not the normal hour for dining but, deeply steeped in religion as he was, the Sheik insisted on the rights of hospitality and, waking his cooks, had them prepare a great platter of cous-cous, mutton, rice, with dates and sweet sherbert to follow. Both men ate greedily and, to show their appreciation, belched mightily. The Sheik smiled and, clapping his hands, had his servants clear away the feast. A hookar was brought and, as they puffed at the water-cooled smoke, the Sheik questioned his guests.

Your camels were stolen, you say?

Aye, said Corville bitterly. Three of the finest camels I ever hope to see. One was a veritable queen of the desert, of pure stock and with eyes like pools of limpid water, He muttered a curse in Arabic. Gone now. Stolen by the Children of Hell. He watched the Sheik closely as he mentioned the dreaded Touregs and, to his relief, the old man nodded.

Terrible are the Veiled Ones, he said. Harsh are they to all who come their way.

Allah is wise, said Corville. Allah is all merciful.

Allah is all-knowing, agreed the Sheik. He puffed for a while in silence. From whence came you?

Marojia. I was taking the unfortunate one, the ward of Allah, to his people at Sidi bel Abbes. We were attacked a short distance from Onassis and left to wander like dogs in the desert. Not even a camel did they leave me, but took them all and, in exchange, gave me this Ferengi rifle. Corville picked up the Lebel. Why should they do this, father?