The cliff did not as I had thought fall sheer to the bottom, but was broken just below me by a great limestone spur jutting out over a shaded pool around which grew a few date palms and reeds: Zazara was not dry! From where I lay it was difficult to make out details, but obviously a camp had been made. I saw some tents and one or two figures walking rapidly to and fro. They were not Bedouin at all, but Goras, relatives of the Sudanese, whom I had already met on the caravan from al-Khufra. Tall, handsome black men, they had only a few firearms and still preferred the spear, the sword and the bow. I was surprised that the Gora could have fired with such promiscuous precision. Then, as I craned to see more, I observed, directly below, something I first took to be water and then a mirage. It actually seemed to be a vast green, white and red Italian flag draped across a wide expanse of rock, the crowned crux blanca flanked by the fasces of Mussolini’s New Rome emblazoned onto two yards of rippling silk! As if the Italians had decided quite literally to put the Libyan Desert under their flag.
I realised the fabric was attached to ropes and if I risked raising my head and craning my neck a little further I could see that the ropes ran up to a large wicker basket, big enough to hold at least half-a-dozen people, and it was then that I understood that I was staring down upon a huge collapsed balloon. Doubtless some party of aeronauts, perhaps from the Italian garrison at Tripoli, had become stranded. I hoped that it was a military group. With the rifles and ammunition I had, together with my food, we could almost certainly kill off enough primitive Goras until they fled.
At that moment a burst of fire caused me to duck rapidly but when I looked again I saw that the only shots were coming from the balloon. Repositioning myself behind a rock I made out a narrow track leading down to the spur of limestone where the balloon basket was perched, then continuing on until it reached the water below. The Goras could not be native to this region or they would have known that there was another approach to the position. In the deep afternoon light, with arrows and spears they flung themselves up the steep rocks, only to be driven back by rapid but economical fire from the crashed balloon. Again I marvelled at the precision of the shots and, by shifting a third time, saw that in fact there was only one gun, a large old-fashioned French Gatling, a mitrailleuse, mounted on a brass swivel bracketed to the basket’s rail. At the basket’s centre was what seemed to be a small semi-dormant steam-engine. The bullets went over the heads of the determined Goras. I could see from their expressions that their worst fears were realised. Satan’s agents had descended upon them. It said something for their courage and their religious faith, if not their common sense, that they were attacking rather than fleeing. I decided I could, without much difficulty and with my camels, reach the rocky spur and the stranded balloon. If the Goras could be driven away from the water, we should soon all be able to drink. It seemed the more noise and dust I made in my descent, the more I gave the impression of a large force coming to the aid of the balloonists. With luck this would make them reconsider the wisdom of their present policy. It would be no shame to them to withdraw before a superior enemy.
I returned to my camels. Using what little Italian I had learned in Otranto, when Esmé and I had come ashore after fleeing from Constantinople, I informed the balloon that help was on its way. When I removed her hobble, Uncle Tom looked at me with grateful loving eyes. I let her lead her little tribe up to the cliff and begin the difficult descent down the twisting sandy path, certain that the Italians’ Gatling would deter any would-be archers. ‘E da servire?’ I called, letting my Lee-Enfield off into the air and badly jarring my shoulder. I was not familiar with the rifle’s legendary kick. Someone once told me that the Lee-Enfield .303 was known as the Hun’s Best Friend in the trenches, yet most Tommies swear by them to this day. The smoking gun in my all-but-disabled hand, I waved friendly greeting to the ballooners. The mitrailleuse did not turn in my direction. This was surely a sign that I was accepted as an ally.
It was at this point that Uncle Tom went down with a look of startled disgust, legs sprawling at unlikely angles, neck straining, deeply conscious of her ruined dignity. I lost hold of her halter and, in lunging for it, fell to the ground, rolling towards the basket as my rifle went off a second time, bruising my finger and thumb. In confusion, the other camels began to buck and growl, threatening to shed their own loads. I fought to get Uncle Tom to her feet so that we might both re-order our dignity when from the basket ahead, as I settled at last in its shadow, rose a vision of womanhood so lovely that once again I questioned my own sanity. Was this all part of some complicated hallucination? Was I still out in the desert, raving my last?
She wore a helmet of pale blue silk from which escaped two exquisite red curls on either side of a lovely heart-shaped face. Her gown was fashionably short and matched her cap. Like the cap, it was stitched with scores of pink and blue pearls. I had seen costumes to rival it only in Hollywood. Her fresh complexion, touched lightly by fashion’s demands, her beautiful turquoise eyes, her perfect, boyish figure, were complemented by a self-assured grace as she swung herself over the side crying, in English, ‘How wonderful! Magnificent! My prayers are answered!’ She ran, on low-heeled shoes which matched the rest of her outfit, towards the spot where, with curling mouth, rolling eyes and great melodramatic curses, Uncle Tom was getting to her feet. At last she was steady, to my great relief, but an expression of acute embarrassment now shadowed her sensitive features. ‘Thank you!’ cried the young woman. Then she turned, as if in apology. ‘I’m terribly grateful. I say, would you mind taking over the Gatling and keeping an eye on the natives? They’ve been a nuisance ever since I crashed, but I don’t want to hurt them.’ She began to lug at the bales of fabric on one of our camels. ‘Oh, I say! Silk! I couldn’t ask for more! Silk! Silk!’
With some difficulty I clambered up the rigging and got into what was now very clearly the gondola of an ambitious scientific expedition! There were chests and instrument boxes all around the edges, while at the centre was a small spirit-fired steam-engine, capable, I was sure, of generating the heat necessary to keep the balloon inflated. The basket was oval and had a small propeller which I would guess was next to useless for powering or steering such a large balloon. Gingerly I took the handles of the Gatling in my fingers and peered over the basket’s rail. Down on the other side of the water the dark-skinned Goras were standing about near their tents talking to a young man in a white turban, who would be the son of their sheikh. He was pointing back at the narrow fissure in the rock, evidently the other path into the oasis. I was glad they had lost interest in us for the moment. It gave me time to recover from my surprise that the only occupant of the balloon appeared to be a beautiful young woman whose chief problem was which material to choose for a new costume! I wondered, if I had found her out in the desert dying of thirst, she would not have called delicately for a glass of ice-cold Bollinger’s ‘06. I was a little admiring of such sang-froid in so young a woman and I was reminded of Mrs Cornelius (whom she did not otherwise resemble). In a few minutes she returned dragging a bale of cloth, part of our bogus trading goods. ‘It’s just right.’ She still used English. ‘I’m awfully sorry. I’m being frightfully rude.’ She began to speak in a slow, childish Arabic which became charming on her lips. ‘I am grateful to you, sidhi, for your generosity in aiding one who is neither of your tribe, nor of your religion. God has blessed me.’