Read Ebook: Sarah of the Sahara: A Romance of Nomads Land by Chappell George S George Shepard

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Ebook has 406 lines and 24836 words, and 9 pages

eer 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.

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 down the 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. This was 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 how many miles per gallon can the beast do. Curiously, just as with automobiles, dealers invariably lie about this point.

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 Latin Quarter. 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.

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 broke the 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.

Ab-Domen fought with the resource and bravery of a great commander. We were now all crouching low against the blast.

"Fill 'em up," I ordered, knowing that the next station was hundreds of miles to the eastward.

Intensely interested as I am in the secrets of nature's book I became completely absorbed in the perusal of this fascinating page, or perhaps I should say foot-note. Bending over the imprinted tracks in silent study I became aware of a soft tread on the sand back of me. I turned my head silently but though I made the motion with the greatest caution it was enough to stampede a flock of seven magnificent whiffle-hens, birds of the utmost rarity, a cross between the ostrich and the bustard.

They were off at once, loping across the desert with that supremely easy and deceptive swing of their slightly bowed legs, traveling at a gait which breaks the heart of the swiftest horse, their snowy plumes gleaming in the sunshine. But what brought me up all standing was the fact that the leader of the flock sported in the center of his tail-feathers a gorgeous ostrich plume which very evidently did not belong there. For it was bright blue!

On the instant I recognized it as the ornament worn by Lady Wimpole at the Casino in Monte Carlo!

A second later I was rushing pell-mell back to camp to rouse Ab-Domen and make preparations for pursuing the rapidly vanishing whiffle-hens.

Off we flew like arrows. It would have been more impressive had we both gone in the same direction. As it was the effect was somewhat scattered and it was ten minutes before Whinney and I re-convened two miles from the encampment and were able to lay a course in the supposed direction of the birds. Our brutes had now calmed down but were still mettlesome and we seemed to fly over the sandy floor, eagerly scanning the horizon. Fortune favored us. The flock had stopped to feed among some low-growing ground-aloes and we came on them suddenly in a fold of the plain.

Reining up I motioned Whinney to move with caution. We must rouse but not frighten them if we hoped to keep within range. Cupping my hands I gave a close approximation of the cry of the African whimbrell, a small but savage bird which is the bane of the whiffle-hen whom it pesters by sudden, unexpected attacks. The flock moved on at once looking about and paying no attention to us as long as we remained at a distance.

Thus we proceeded for the better part of the morning. The sun's heat was becoming dangerous. According to all laws of desert travel we should have been safely sheltered in our tents but I kept on obstinately. My theory was this; whiffle-hens, owing to the value of their plumage, are often caught, corralled and domesticated as is the ostrich. That this was the case with the birds we were following was evident from the presence among them of Lady Wimpole's blue feather. They might well have been part of her caravan, have broken bounds and launched out for themselves. On then, ever on! Fortune favors the obstinate!

It was unmistakably the Wimpoles' caravan. Hampers, hold-alls, English-tents and impedimenta were everywhere in evidence.

"Where are they, the Lords of your destiny?" I questioned.

The old hen-shepherd blew out a final cloudlet of sand.

"Yonder is their dwelling: the silken tent neath the third palm. They are but just now risen."

Dismounting and throwing my reins to the native I strode off in the direction indicated. As I drew near the tent I paused.

"Hold!" I cried. "Stay thy hand: infidel son of a swineherd's sister; or by the beard of the Prophet thou perish'st."

The speech was entirely impromptu and I thought it sounded well, but somehow it fell flat.

Lord Wimpole was alone. He was shaving.

"I was speakin' to that dam' parrot," he said brandishing his razor toward Selim who was twisting about and making a noise like sick automobile-gears. "Who are you, may I ask?"

How low the fellow was! ... and how contemptible he looked, his face half shaved, half lumpy with lather. One of life's bitter jokes is that practically every man must shave. As I thus philosophized the curtains of an adjoining apartment opened and She appeared.

"Doctor...." she began.

I checked her with an imperious gesture in which was expressed the boundless freedom of the fiery Arab race.

"El Sheik Abdullah-el-Dhub ak Moplah," I announced.

Lord Wimpole was plainly impressed. Hastily finishing his left cheek he extended his hand.

"'Oly mackerel ... a real Sheik. Put'er there. I'm a lord meself."

Ignoring his effusion I spoke solemnly.

"Leagues have I ridden, I and my faithful follower, tracing the flight of birds, yea, even of the swift-skimming whiffle-hens, which ever drew nearer to their home even as my falcon-heart drew nearer to its nest, the tent of the most beautiful."

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