‘Well done,’ he says. ‘I don’t know how you bear it – the brute. I am sorry, Zena. I wish I could look after you better.’
For a moment, she thinks she might cry. It seems a long time ago that Zena had servants and slaves. She misses being cared for and, if she allows herself to think of it, which she does seldom, she feels a dull pang of love for her grandmother. The thought saddens her despite the fact that the desert is proving intriguing, and this man most of all. She pulls herself up on her elbows. All she can see of him is his face, a pale blue orb, glowing in the pitch.
‘You did well,’ he assures her.
‘Thank you.’ There is a lump in her throat, but she controls it.
They have reached a line that neither feels ready to cross.
‘Well then,’ he says, turning away, ‘Good night.’
Zena, for all her travels, is unworldly, and she has no words for the sparks she feels shoot through her. That he would say such a thing – an act of kindness – is astonishing. That he would then turn away and expect nothing for it has unexpected power. She wishes her grandmother had not been so protective, and that she understood better what passes between a man and woman. As it is, she simply enjoys the feelings and wonders if they are what lightning is made of, for everything in the world comes back to the weather. Tears like rain. Smiles like the sun. Hair as dry as sand and fear like the dark ocean.
‘London,’ she mouths silently. ‘Marylebone.’ The strange names roll around her tongue as she attempts the pro nunciation. Dreamlike as lullabies they send her to sleep.
‘I can’t imagine what the hell you were thinking, man!’ Sir Charles blusters at Haines, as he whacks the captain’s report onto his desk. The monsoons are past now and the heat is building up slowly again which is more than can be said for Sir Charles’ temper about which there is nothing leisurely. It is excellent, of course, that Haines has captured a French vessel on the journey back to Bombay, but the cargo! It doesn’t bear thinking about. ‘What in the name of the Almighty are we supposed to do with them all?’ the Head of the Bombay Marine explodes.
The captain looks sheepish though he harbours a twinge of annoyance at his lordship’s reaction. He should, he is sure, be treated like a damn hero.
Malcolm strides to the window and looks down on the French ship. It is a fine piece of booty. But still. ‘Did you lose any men?’ he thinks to enquire at last.
‘Not one.’ Haines leans forward. The captain can’t help sounding smug. Why the hell shouldn’t he? ‘And you have proof now, sir, that the French are still slaving. That surely is a good thing.’
Malcolm wipes his face with a handkerchief. His skin is slick with sweat. You’d think he’d acclimatise, but in his view Bombay’s weather is simply getting more unpleasant. If it’s not the bally, baking sun, it’s the humidity of the monsoon driving everyone to distraction. He takes a swig of Madeira from an intricately engraved glass, without offering any to Haines. He’s too taken up with the problem in hand to think of anyone else’s comfort. The captain sits back in the mahogany seat on the other side of the desk and swelters.
‘They didn’t see us coming,’ he says with the air of a boy relating a triumph at the school sports day. ‘It was very late and we had no lamps up, you see. We knew immediately what they were up to and I had my midshipmen blast them. The Frenchies didn’t know a thing about it. They hardly stood a chance. The boys were admirable, sir. Ormsby certainly deserves a commendation. It’s a pity the lad is too young to promote. The Frenchies will have to be returned, I suppose? Still, the crew are delighted – there’s nothing like the prospect of prize money to encourage the men.’
Sir Charles nods. ‘It’s not the bloody Frenchies I’m concerned with, Haines. But I suppose it is well enough done, Captain.’
Haines beams. At last Sir Charles appears to have realised what he has achieved. ‘You don’t have to worry about the cargo, sir,’ he assures his superior.
Sir Charles grimaces. It’s the cargo that is the nub of course. There is no protocol for what to do with captured slaves (who, by the letter of the law, aren’t slaves of course, for slaving is illegal and simply does not exist any longer). Shipping the forty youngsters back to Africa is inconvenient in the extreme – a complete waste of resources and, besides, there is no way to know exactly where the blighters actually come from. They cannot be kept in Bombay (or at least not easily, for they are ill-educated bush children with no skills and every one of them darker than an Untouchable. Whoever would employ them? Certainly not the Bombay Marine). Worse, Lady Malcolm is an ardent abolitionist and if Sir Charles does something that she deems to be wrong, he’ll never hear the end of it.
‘I don’t suppose,’ Haines suggests, ‘we have any ships leaving for Ceylon?’
Malcolm pauses. Now that is a very enterprising idea – for years the captain has brought nothing but problems to the table. Now, at last, here he is offering a small solution. Lagging behind London and tardy in its responsibilities, slavery is still legal in British Ceylon, in fact, the plant ations are crying out for extra hands. The slaves, or as Sir Charles prefers to think of them, the cargo, cannot be dispatched, of course, on a navy vessel. The Bombay Marine does not run slaves – its mission and duty is to liberate them. No, no, that would never do. But he is sure he can have one of the men discreetly find a private clipper bound in the right direction. Pottinger might be the man for that job, – the young Englishman is proving tenacious and effective in every way. Lady Malcolm need never know and this will be far easier to keep from her than trying to place the skilless, hapless cargo anywhere in Bombay where they are worse than useless. Yes, Ceylon will do very well.
‘Good,’ Sir Charles smiles slowly. He motions towards the bottle of Madeira and Haines nods curtly and pours himself a glug. The men click glasses and the thick, amber liquid raises a syrupy splash on the rim. ‘Yes. That will sort things out. Good. Now, tell me, you are sure Doctor Jessop is dead, are you? Lieutenant Jones as well?’
‘Oh yes, sir. I wouldn’t have let Wellsted go on the damn, wild-goose chase, but he is hopeless as an officer, my last choice for any task. Besides, the sultan, for God knows what reason, absolutely insisted on it,’ the captain fumes, unable to contain himself. ‘Lieutenant Wellsted is untrustworthy in the extreme. He has terrible Arabic and poor seamanship skills. The man is fine as an assistant, nothing more.’
Sir Charles nods, taking this in. The captain’s assessment doesn’t tie up with his own, albeit brief experience of the lieutenant, when he was stationed in Bombay. Nor is it consistent with what he’s been hearing lately from London, where, it seems, Wellsted has written some kind of interesting account of his experiences in the region. Though Haines has first-hand experience of the young officer at close quarters and under pressure, his lordship is inclined to take the view of John Murray more into consideration. From memory, the lad’s demeanour is good and he has passable manners. In any case, Malcolm hopes Wellsted will make it out of the desert alive and that Haines is wrong (not for the first time) and the lieutenant brings Jones and Jessop with him. So many of these young chaps die that it’s difficult to keep up with the ones that are left, and to decide what best to do with them. When there are such heavy losses be they due to malaria or battle, he sometimes feels as if he is watching an investment being flushed down the river. Malcolm has always felt that the service is founded on the expertise of its officers and that those officers are its best public face. He hates to waste them.
‘I hope he’s taking decent notes,’ he says. ‘At least then we might get something out of it.’
Haines shrugs his shoulders as if to say that he couldn’t tell what Wellsted may or may not do and, in any case, he certainly isn’t responsible for it.
‘Right,’ says Sir Charles. ‘Lunch, I think. Must be getting back.’
He can dispatch this news later. London will be interested in the French activity and, all things considered, the captain has done well. Malcolm only wishes that the man didn’t
moan
all the time. He’s had a problem with every crew he’s ever led. It is most tiresome.
Haines stands to attention and salutes.
‘You must come to dinner,’ His Lordship says as an afterthought, though it is telling that he does not set a date for this. He’s thinking that he’ll ask the chap on short notice one night when they are down a fellow – sometime when he needs an extra body for bridge or billiards rather than conversation. ‘Billeted all right at the mess are you?’
‘Oh yes, sir,’ Haines beams. The captain does not understand the slight and is looking forward to some decent cooking, the opportunity to catch up on his reading and perhaps even to making a start on the book he has been meaning to write for the last five years. Now, of course, he will have to direct himself to some other area of interest than the Socotra trip, but he is sure he will think of something. The marine life of the Red Sea perhaps. Young Ormsby has spotted an interesting fish or two.
‘The mess in Bombay is fine for me. It’s good to be back, sir.’ He shakes Sir Charles’ hand warmly, and salutes before he leaves the room.
As they travel further north, the party enters
Wahabi
territory. The strangers they now encounter have the long beards of their sect and their dark eyes are serious. Prayer times, until the change of jurisdiction, are a gentle and pleasant affair but now they take on an air of fundamentalism. Instead of family groups and a ramshackle collection of servants that make up the
Bedu
caravans, the
Wahabi
travel without women and are accompan ied mostly by uniformly thin and faceless slaves. As a result, the conversations over coffee take on a less familial air and the news is of politics and power struggles. Once more, Wellsted’s Turkish disguise lays him open to sus picion.
‘Why do you travel with a Turk?’ one man asks Ibn Mohammed contemptuously. ‘They stole our cities. We took them back.’
The power struggle in the northern territories is ongoing.
‘The
effendi
is an investor,’ Ibn Mohammed assures the man. ‘He has the blessing of the Sultan of Oman to travel with us.’
But none of the men accept that. The boundaries of the sultan’s territories are long passed. His Highness is a foreign ruler here and, worse, one who is maligned.
‘No. No,’ they insist, bitterly, a rush of bad feeling overtaking the coffee ritual, ‘this man is a
Turk
.’ They spit the word. ‘You should cast him out.’
They are equally as shocked at the notion of a woman travelling with the party and eye Zena with contempt as she goes quietly about her chores.
‘I wonder which one of us they think is worse?’ Wellsted whispers to her.
Zena only stares. He is a fool if he does not know a woman is the lowest of the low and a female slave lower still.
That night the
Wahabi
refuse to sleep in a settlement where there is a Turk and after dinner they take their leave. ‘We will make our camp an hour or two further,’ they say. ‘None of us will sleep with such a man in the party – we might as well make our way.’
‘We have travelled for weeks with him and, truth be told, I spar with him. The man could have killed me several times,’ Kasim informs them, just as coldly. It’s true, the men have taken to sparring on the sands before dinner – Kasim tutoring the lieutenant in the use of his
khandjar.
After the featureless days, if they have no company it at least provides a little sport. The
Wahabi
shrug. The fact the Turk has not killed his travelling companions makes no matter.
‘It is better we leave,’ they say. ‘He is a Turk.’
The rudeness makes Wellsted blush though the Arabs are unaffected. Amid almost ceremonial politeness in most matters, each man on the sands must make his own decisions and say what he feels.
‘I’m glad they’ve gone,’ he says to Kasim when the men have disappeared into the darkness.
The slaver only shrugs and the camp settles for the evening.
Much later, past midnight, Kasim is jerked awake in the darkness. He never wakes unless there is good reason and in this case, his instincts are not to be faulted. Ibn Mohammed’s eyes are already open. Someone is approaching the settlement. The slavers have not got where they are without an almost psychic ability to second-guess who their enemies are and what they will do. While Zena blundering into the darkness after a snake does not merit more than a grumble and a short interlude between bouts of deep sleep, the mere movement of a robe out of place and a scimitar or
khandjar
being drawn carefully from its scabbard, raises them immediately.
Ibn Mohammed lies prone for all of three seconds. A flicker of regret passes across his face as realisation dawns. He can hear four of them – it can only be the
Wahabi
who left the camp a few hours before. Experienced raiders, they are all but silent as they cross the sands in the near blackness afforded by the thin moon and sneak towards the oasis, no doubt imagining it defenceless. Who else can it be? He signals Kasim who nods curtly in agreement. No one can be allowed to attack, even if all the men have come for, most likely, is to slit Wellsted’s throat. In all honesty, if the
Wahabi
knew the truth of his identity, it might well be worse. On the long list of those deserving of contempt, the northern tribes hate the infidel more than they hate the Turks, but that is by the by.
The slavers can take the four men easily, of course, but Kasim decides to wake the lieutenant. It only seems right. He slips to his feet and lays one strong hand on Wellsted’s wrist and another over his mouth. Kasim’s eyes jerk to the higher ground. ‘Your chance to fight for real, my friend,’ he whispers.
Ibn Mohammed, a solid black shadow with his dark
kaffiya
draped over his face, rolls away, draws his weapon and sneaks behind the line of attack so stealthily he is almost invisible. He is born to this. Deftly, like a ghost, he kills two of the intruders before they realise the camp is alert to their plan. Their throats slit, the bodies fall to the ground quicker than the blood can slide down their skin. They do not even reach the first slave, still dozing, dribbling in sleep on the fringes of the sleeping circle. The two raiders who are left reach the prone figures before they comprehend they have been seen and their kinsmen are dead. They do not retreat but push ahead to complete the mission. One looks for the Turk, ready to cut out his heart. The other easily captures Zena, who does not scream as she wakes, only sinks her teeth into the man’s arm as he tries to pull her up the hill.
It is his voice that cries out into the still, desert night, the first sound that really breaks the silence. In a raid like this the girl is fair game. Moving swiftly, Wellsted easily avoids the other fellow and falls on the kidnapper, ripping Zena free of his grasp. The lieutenant does not even bother to draw the
khandjar
or the long-bladed
khattirah
he has been learning to use. Instead, in sheer fury and without thinking, he reaches straight for the kidnapper’s throat and he strangles the raider with his bare hands, such venom in his heart that he can think of nothing else as he squeezes the man’s life away. As the body falls, Kasim, with his blood high, uses his
khandjar
to slit the man’s gullet just to be sure. The lieutenant, it turns out, is as good in a fight as when they practised. Kasim moves off to trail the last assassin.
‘Are you all right?’ Wellsted checks Zena. His heart is pounding at the thought of her being taken. He’s known for a while that he cares about her, but this murderous fury has surprised him. How dare these men?
Zena nods and then circles, peering into the darkness, terror pulsing through her as she scans the dunes for signs of a further onslaught. God knows who else is out there. She lays a hand on Wellsted’s arm in gratitude and squeezes. When their eyes meet it is like a moment that is stolen from everyone else.
‘Shall I run?’ she whispers.
‘No. Stay here.’
Her breath is quick in panic and he can hear her panting. She steps back a little and Wellsted lays his hand on her shoulder as he checks to see where Ibn Mohammed and Kasim are focussing their attention.
‘Stay behind me,’ he tells her and she falls gratefully into his wake.
The slaves are rising now, woken by the sound of violence. The sleeping men jump to their feet, calling to their friends and ready to fight for their lives in the lacquer-black darkness. Ibn Mohammed is furious for the final assassin is lost in the panic.
‘Quiet,’ he shouts down the dune, but it is too late to follow the sound of the man’s robes moving away and the
Wahabi
is gone.
Kasim makes a sign that shows the attack is over. Of the four, three are dead.
Zena reaches out. There is a shape on the sand. It is Wellsted’s notebook.
‘Here, you dropped this,’ she says. Her hand is shaking as she gives it to him.
‘Come,’ Wellsted gestures, as elegantly as if he is a
Bedu
. ‘Sit near the fire. You are shaken.’
There is something so fragile about her. When she looks up at him, he has a vague sense of guilt, for there should be no real bond between them, he is sure of it, only courtesies, and yet he has just killed a man for trying to steal her, and the killing was not for courtesy’s sake. He has never felt such hatred in all his life. The passion surprises him and, unlike Zena, he is not too young to misunderstand it. He thinks of the moment after, when their eyes locked and the empty desert, if it is possible, became even more silent.
‘If they had taken you, I would have come after you,’ Wellsted assures her evenly.
The girl is as jumpy as a gazelle but still, she smiles. Wellsted knows the pang he feels is not from the purple bruise that is forming on his shoulder. When she glances at him it is as if she is casting a spell. He cannot say anything. There are too many others nearby and the words are not easy to find.
For Zena’s part, she feels safe next to her master and this produces a sensation that surprises her. Unlike the thunder and lightning of his touch, for the first time ever in her life she feels an overwhelming gratitude that gives her butterflies in her stomach and a glow that a wiser, older woman would describe as affection, even love. He fetches a blanket and sits next to her, only inches away and if the rest of the caravan were not so busy checking the dunes, moving as close together as possible, looking always outwards, it would surely be noted that the black girl and the white man have a strange stillness about them, as if the world’s lens is focussing solely on the two of them. As it is, a guard is mounted and the camp settles slowly without noticing what has happened.
I will never sleep,
she thinks. Out here, if she is stolen she knows that most likely she’ll never leave the wide, sandy expanse again. Zena does not want to spend the rest of her life milking camels and pitching tents, traded between dirty, ragged settlements at the whim of one man or another. Strangely, though, calmed by Wellsted’s presence and as all falls to stillness once more, she drifts off as she hears him breathing smoothly beside her, and in the morning, just as dawn is breaking, when they wake, their fingers are entwined.
‘
Ana mut asif,
I’m sorry,’ she says, rather formal in tone, as she pulls her hand back towards her body quickly. It is as if his touch burns her. He cannot see her cheeks colour, but she feels mortified, far beyond the level of the offence. Instead of awkwardness, he smiles openly. He thinks he will apologise but then there is no time, for Ibn Mohammed and Kasim are kicking towards him across the sand, their eyes sharp in the morning light, and Zena withdraws towards the fire to help brew the coffee.
‘The attacker left tracks.’ Ibn Mohammed points over to the west.
‘Shall we hunt him?’ Kasim asks eagerly.
Ibn Mohammed shakes his head. ‘We will not turn back where we came from,’ he says, for there is no measure in that.
The man is lucky in that, at least. Had he blundered off to the north or east he would be dead before midday, they would have seen to it.
‘Come, my friend,’ Ibn Mohammed, gestures at Wellsted’s prayer mat, which is poking clear from his saddle. ‘It is better to pray than sleep. And then we shall break our fast.’
On Ibn Mohammed’s orders, as the men rise sleepily into the dawn and the rite of the prayers are undergone, the bodies of the
Wahabi
assassins are left where they fell, as carrion for the vultures. Such men do not merit any honour. Their weapons are taken and the bodies searched. They must have left their booty stowed in the saddlebags in their own camp for they are holding not a single dollar anywhere on their persons. Ibn Mohammed spits on the corpses and motions the party onwards.
The birds are already circling the fresh flesh as the camp is taken down, the fire is extinguished and the last camel leaves the high, golden dune. Zena follows Wellsted so closely that she could be his shadow. It feels to her as if she is tethered to him willingly now. Something has changed. When Wellsted disappears at one stage across the top of the high ground, to Zena it is as if the whole desert is on tiptoes to try to see where he has gone and the sky and sand are all the emptier for his absence.
In future when they meet the
Wahabi
, the slavers fall into the pattern of keeping Wellsted to the rear with the servants. The sight of a Turkish free man is clearly too much for the xenophobic ire of the northern tribes. Ten years ago, Kasim says, it would have been different, five years ago perhaps, but in the turbulent times that have come to pass the
Wahabi
grow wilder eyed and more vengeful by the month.
‘We will say you are a
huss
,’ Ibn Mohammed spits contemptuously, though it is easy to see that it amuses him. ‘And in my employ.’
It seems a Turkish camel man is acceptable. A business associate is not. So in company now Wellsted tends a camel and eats second in turn, taking orders from Kasim, whose eyes burn brightly with silent laughter as he tells the lieutenant what to do. Though he must admit, the white man plays the part they have given him well.
As they continue northwards. The news is not good.
‘A long time,’ Kasim grits his teeth when they receive news that the camp might have moved beyond Riyadh, perhaps as much as a day.
Wellsted knows that to complain is simply not on. It is something the British have in common with their Arab counterparts and he understands the notion instinctively. He worries though that the longer it takes, the less chance they have of freeing Jessop and Jones.
‘It’s given me a chance to grow my beard,’ he says lightly and passes a hand over his chin. The beard, now fully grown, has completed his disguise. ‘I can’t complain, old man. After all, I have learnt a very great deal about the needs of the camel.’
‘Ten days,’ Ibn Mohammed growls, ever short of temper, but Kasim laughs.
The
effendi
is turning out to be better sport than he expected. The white man would never survive alone, of course, but for a
Nazarene
the lieutenant is acquitting himself admirably.