TWENTY-ONE
WITH THE BACK OF his hand Hector brushed the moisture from his cheek. The gesture reminded him of his parting from Elizabeth. She had urged him to forget her, yet the pain of her rejection was ever present. For several days after his meeting with her he had considered returning to Ireland to find out what might have happened to his mother, to learn whether she had stayed there or gone, as he had suspected, back to her own people in Galicia. But in the end he abandoned the idea, as he felt too bruised to embark on another search. And, he asked himself, what was he to tell his mother when he found her? He was unsure that he would be able to sustain the deception that Elizabeth wanted, to tell their mother the lie that he had never found his sister. He decided that if he was to find his mother, it would only be when there was something positive to say, something to make her proud, something that he had achieved. He was very concious that, at eighteen years of age, with his father dead and his only sister vanished into a Barbary harem, he was left to make his own life. Now, a month later, they were not tears which were running down his face. They were beads of sweat.
The day was as hot as he had ever known, hotter even than when he was working in the quarry at Algiers. He turned to look back at his companions. Dan, Bourdon and Karp were riding in single file behind him, Karp leading their packhorse on a halter. They had all wanted to take the chance of leaving Meknes. Dan, always level-headed, had made the initial suggestion. Perhaps his friend had wanted to jolt him out of his despondency by pointing out that staying so close to Elizabeth was only adding to his distress. There was no future in lingering in Meknes, Dan had said. There was nothing Hector could do to save his sister, and the day would come when Moulay demanded to see his castle smasher, and when it failed to materialise, Moulay’s disappointment would have dangerous consequences. Better to slip away quietly, the Miskito had advised, provided that Sean Allen did not suffer as a result. The gun founder had assured him that there was no need to worry on that score because the Emperor always valued a man who would make and mend his cannon. Go south, Allen had urged, for that will give you several days’ start on any pursuit. Moulay’s people will search for you as soon as it is known that you have left without his permission, and they will presume you are heading west or north, directly for the coast. No one will imagine that you’ve gone towards the Great Desert. Then the gun founder had insisted that they accept his gifts of money and weapons – the latest muskets, pistols and powder – because their flight would surely lead them into wild lands.
Hector glanced up at the sun. It was well past the zenith but still blazing down, its heat reflecting from the rocky ground. He could feel his horse tiring beneath him. From time to time the exhausted animal tripped on a loose rock, the stone clattering away down the slope of the barren hillside across which the little column was moving. He reached inside his shirt for the qibla that he had bought in the market at Meknes. No one had thought it strange that a renegade should want to buy a little prayer compass. He checked the direction they were travelling in, for the land was featureless, a succession of rocky slopes with scrubby vegetation and dry water courses. From the outset the little group had avoided main roads. For the past week since leaving Meknes they had travelled by compass, using tracks and byways wherever possible, skirting around the towns and cities, visiting villages only to obtain fodder for the animals and some basic supplies for themselves. Diaz’s cavalry friend Roberto had provided the essential directions. He had campaigned with the imperial army in this region, and Hector had written down the Spaniard’s recollection of the towns, passes and days marched with the army, then transferred it all to a rough sketch which summarised the terrain. He hoped that the Spaniard’s memory had been accurate. He dreaded wandering in a circle, like the dead rowing master, and perhaps stumbling on a detachment of Moulay’s troops. But the others, riding behind, had confidence in him, insisting that he should be their leader. ‘You’re best qualified,’ Bourdon had assured him. ‘You’re thoughtful as well as educated. It’s more than just making a map of our route. You are good at making plans, and at taking everything into consideration. That’s what a leader’s for.’ Hector had tried to dissuade the others, but they were adamant. They had resolved on trying to reach Negritia, the Land of the Blacks. From there they would find a ship far beyond the reach of Moulay Ismail.
Hector had fallen in with their plans because, in truth, he was uncertain where his own future lay. He had only his friendship to sustain him, his friendship with Bourdon and Karp, but above all with Dan. So when the three of them spoke of trying to reach the coast beyond Negritia, he had drawn a map, recalling details from the great map of Piri Reis. He had marked as many of the countries as he could remember and added the conjectured course of a substantial river curving through the interior. This river was reputed to join in one direction to the Nile of Egypt, he told his companions, while in the other direction it was known to empty into the sea at a place where the ships of many trading nations came to do business with the natives, carrying away gold, spices, elephants’ teeth and slaves. ‘Where do those ships return?’ Bourdon had asked. ‘From wherever they came – from England, France, Portugal, Spain, Brandenburg. We could take passage aboard them. You could go home to France,’ Hector had replied. ‘Do any of them sail onwards?’ the pickpocket had asked, his finger tracing a course directly out into the ocean. ‘That would take them towards the Americas,’ Hector answered, and his words had decided their mutual fate. With a grimace Bourdon had touched his galerien’s brand and murmured he would never be welcome back in France. Dan announced that he too would prefer to head westward and return to his own people. Finally Hector had looked across at Karp, who had been staring at the map and listening to their discussion. Karp had nodded his agreement without being asked. And so the decision was made.
Hector wiped his face again. He hoped that the ridge ahead of them would be the final one before they came in sight of Oued Noun. That was the name of the oasis which lay on the edge of the desert, according to Roberto. It was the last place where they would see real houses built of brick and stone. Everything beyond was nomad territory where people sheltered under tents. ‘Whatever you do, don’t try to cross the Great Desert on your own,’ the Spaniard had warned. ‘You wouldn’t stand a chance. You have to know the exact direction and distance of each waterhole, and whether you will find water at that particular season and in that year. Sometimes the waterholes fail. If they do, then you perish. Your best chance is to join a coffle, a caravan, which is properly equipped and has a reliable guide. Just hope you find one when you reach Oued Noun.’
Cresting the ridge, Hector found that the land sloped away as a barren, stony, dun-coloured plain dotted with clumps of thorn bushes and an occasional acacia tree. Among the thorn bushes were the ungainly shapes of camels, at least a hundred of them, foraging on the prickly vegetation. Even as he reined in his horse to take in the view, there was a startled shout. A small boy, evidently a camel herd, had been dozing in the shade of an acacia. He sprang to his feet and went running away towards the low roofs of a small settlement in the distance to carry a warning.