Chapter XVII

AT the start everything went well. Qway, it is true, though he did his best to disguise the fact, was evidently greatly put out by my having been able to produce so much barley. But the rest of the men were in excellent spirits. Ibrahim, in particular, with the flint-lock gun slung over his back, was as pleased with himself as any boy would be when carrying his first gun. The camels, in spite of their heavy loads, went so well that on the evening of the second day we reached the bushes.

I found that a well which, without finding a trace of water, I had dug the year before to a depth of thirty feet had silted up to more than half its depth with sand. Here we cut what firewood we wanted, and on the following morning Abdulla and Qway left the caravan and went on ahead towards Jebel el Bayed.

I walked with them for a short distance as they left, to give them final instructions. I told them that we should closely follow their tracks. Having some experience of Qway’s sauntering ways when scouting by himself, I told him that he must make his camel put her best leg forward, and that if he did I would give him a big _bakhshish_ at the end of the journey.

He at once lost his temper. The camel was his, he said, and he was not going to override her, and he should go at whatever pace he choose. He was not working for me at all, but he was working for Allah. My obvious retort, that in that case there was no necessity for me to pay his wages, did not mend matters in the least, and he went off in a towering rage. The Senussi teach their followers that every moment of a man’s life should be devoted to the service of his Creator; consequently, though he may be working for an earthly master, he must first consider his duty towards Allah, as having the first claim upon his services—a Jesuitical argument that obviously puts great power into the hands of the Senussi sheykhs, who claim to be the interpreters of the will of Allah.

Abd er Rahman, who had been watching this little scene from a distance, looked very perturbed when I got back to the caravan. Qway, he said, was feeling _marbut_ (tied) and that was very bad, because he was very cunning, and he prophesied that we should have a very difficult journey.

The Arabs are naturally a most undisciplined race, who kick at once at any kind of restraint. They are apt to get quite highfalutin on the subject of their independence, and will tell you that they want to be like the gazelle, at liberty to wander wherever they like, and to be as free as the wind that blows across their desert wastes, and all that kind of thing, and it makes them rather kittle cattle to handle.

Abd er Rahman was right; things began to go wrong almost at once. The first two days after leaving Mut had been cool, but a _simum_ sprang up after we left the bushes and the day became stiflingly hot. Towards midday the internal pressure, caused by the expansion of the water and air in one of the tanks, restarted a leak that had been mended, and the water began to trickle out of the hole. We unloaded the camel and turned the tank round, so that the leak was uppermost and the dripping stopped. But soon a leak started in another of the mended tanks, and by the evening the water in most of those I had with me was oozing out from at least one point, and several of them leaked from two or more places.

When a tank had only sprung one leak, we were able to stop the wastage by hanging it with the crack uppermost; but when more than one was present, this was seldom possible. One of the tanks leaked so badly that we took it in turns to hold a tin underneath it, and, in that way, managed to save a considerable amount of water that we poured into a _gurba_.

On arriving in camp, I took the leaks in hand and stopped them with sealing-wax. This loss of water was a serious matter. Every morning I measured out the day’s allowance for each man by means of a small tin; in face of the leakage from the tanks, I thought it advisable to cut down the allowance considerably.

This called forth loud protests from Abd er Rahman, who declared that it was quite impossible for him to work in such heat on such a meagre supply.

I endeavoured to pacify him by pointing out that I was not asking him to do anything I was not prepared to do myself, and that, as a Sudani, he belonged to a race that prided themselves on being able to endure the hardships to be encountered in a desert journey. But he only got more excited, saying that he and Ibrahim did more work than I did, as they had to load and unload the camels and walked all day, while I occasionally rode. Dahab, he added, was of no use in the desert, as he was only a cook, and I could do without him, and, as we were short of water, we had better get rid of him. At the end he was fairly shouting at me with rage, and, as he was not in a state to listen to arguments, I walked away from the camp into the desert to give him time to cool down.

A Sudani at heart is a savage, and if a savage thinks he is deprived of the necessaries of life he is very apt to fall back upon primitive methods, and is quite capable of “getting rid” of anyone who stands between him and his water supply. Visions of the ghastly scenes that took place among the survivors of the shipwrecked “Medusa” and “Mignonette,” when they ran short of water, and of the terrible fate that overtook the survivors of the disastrous Flatters expedition, during their retreat to Algeria from the central Sahara, came up before my eyes, and, as I saw Abd er Rahman and Ibrahim earnestly consulting together, I felt the situation was not one to be trifled with.

I went back to the camp fully expecting to have to deal with something like a mutiny. I called Abd er Rahman up and told him he was never to speak to me again like that, and if he did I should fine him heavily. I said that we should find plenty of water in the depot at Jebel el Bayed and there was no need at all for any anxiety, but that, owing to the leakage from the tanks, we should have to be careful till we got there. I told him that I should help to load and unload the baggage, and would walk all day to show that the allowance of water was sufficient. As to Dahab, I pointed out that he had worked with him for two seasons in the desert, and that it was very treacherous for him to turn round and want to “get rid” of him directly there was a slight deficiency in the water supply.

Much to my surprise, I found him extremely penitent. He said I could drink all his water supply and Ibrahim’s as well if I wanted it; of course he could put up with a small water supply better than I could, he was very strong; and as for Dahab he was an excellent fellow and a friend of his; he had only been angry because he was thirsty. I told him that it was very easy for him to talk, but that I should like to see how much there was at the back of what he said, so I challenged him to see if he could do on less water than I could. A sporting offer of this sort generally appeals to a Sudani or an Arab. He accepted my challenge with a grin.

Ibrahim afterwards apologised for his brother, saying that he had been behaving like a woman.

The sealing-wax I had put on the leaks effectually closed them; but towards noon the increasing heat melted the wax and soon they were leaking as badly as ever; the other tanks, that had held out up to that point, also opened their seams in the heat, and, by the end of the day, _every single tank_ that I had was dripping its precious contents on to the ground. Only the small ones that I had made for the depots remained waterproof.

As the sealing-wax proved ineffectual, I scraped it off in the evening, and, since the leaks were all in the seams of the tanks, I plugged them with some gutta-percha tooth stopping that I had fortunately brought with me, wedging it into the seams where they leaked with the blade of a knife. This was apparently unaffected by the heat, and, though it was liable to be loosened by rough usage, was a great improvement on the wax. But the leaks were plugged too late. During the two days while they were open, one tank had become almost entirely empty, and the others had all lost a considerable portion of their contents. Fortunately I had allowed an ample supply of water, most of which was in the depot at Jebel el Bayed, so with the small tanks to fall back on in case of need, we could count on being able to get out about twelve days instead of the fifteen I had arranged for, which I expected would more than take us to Owanat.

We continued our march, leaving a small depot behind us at each camp till we reached the main store. This I found had not been made, as I intended it should be, at the foot of Jebel el Bayed, but a good half-day’s journey to its north.

I was greatly relieved to see that the depot appeared to be quite in order; but Abd er Rahman was evidently suspicious, for leaving the unloading of the camels to Ibrahim and Dahab, he went off to the depot and began peering about and searching the neighbourhood for tracks.

Almost at once he returned with a very long face, announcing that a lot of water had been thrown away. I hurried up to the depot, and he pointed out two large patches of sand thickly crusted on the surface, showing that a very large amount of water had been spilt. We examined the depot itself. The sacks of grain were quite untouched, but every one of the large iron tanks was practically empty, with the exception of one which was about half full. The little tanks intended for the small depots did not appear to have been tampered with, perhaps because they would have required some time to empty.

The neighbourhood of the place where the water had been poured was covered with the great square footprints made by Qway’s leather sandals, and made it quite clear that it was he who had emptied the tanks. There was no trace of the more rounded sandals worn by Abdulla on that side of the depot.

We followed Qway’s footprints for a short distance. About two hundred yards away from the depot they joined on to Abdulla’s, the small neat marks of Qway’s camel overlaying the bigger prints of Abdulla’s _hagin_—showing clearly that Qway had been the last to leave. I then returned with Abd er Rahman to the camp to decide what was best to be done.

The heavy leakage from the tanks we had brought with us, coupled with the large amount of water thrown away by Qway, made it abundantly clear that all chance of carrying out the scheme for which I had been working for two seasons, of getting across the desert to the Sudan, or of even getting as far as Owanat, was completely out of the question. It was a nasty jar, but it was of no use wasting time in grousing about it.

Our own position gave cause for some anxiety. So far as I and the men with me were concerned we were, of course, in no danger at all. Mut, with its water supply, could easily have been reached in about a week—it was only about one hundred and fifty miles away—and we had sufficient water with us and in the depots to take us back there.

As for Qway, I felt he was quite capable of looking after himself, and I did not feel much inclined to bother about him. The difficulty was Abdulla. From his tracks it was clear that he had no hand in emptying the tanks, and I very much doubted whether he knew anything at all about it. Abd er Rahman’s explanation of what had occurred was, I felt sure, the correct one. His view was that Abdulla, though “very strong in the meat, was rather feeble in the head,” and that Qway had managed to get rid of him on some excuse and had stayed behind to empty the tanks, which he had then put back in their places, hoping perhaps that we should not notice that anything was wrong.

Abdulla, counting on me to bring him out water and provisions, had gone off for a six days’ journey, relying on meeting us at the end of that time. After going as far as he could to the south, he was to cut across on to Qway’s track and then to ride back along it to meet us. The man had served me well, and in any case I did not feel at all inclined to leave him to die of thirst, as he certainly would, if we did not go out to meet him. Obviously, we should have to follow up Qway’s track to relieve him—a course which also held out the alluring prospect of being able to get hold of Qway himself.

But our water was insufficient to enable the whole caravan to go on together, and it was urgently necessary to send back to Dakhla for a further supply. The difficulty was to know whom to send. There was always the risk that Qway might wheel round on us and try to get at our line of depots; and unfortunately he carried a Martini-Henri rifle I had lent him. My first idea was to go back with Dahab myself, as I could have found my way back to Mut without much difficulty, using my compass if necessary—the road was an easy one to follow—and to let the two Sudanese go on to relieve their fellow-tribesman, Abdulla; but this scheme seemed to be rather throwing the worst of the work on them—besides I wanted to go ahead in order to make the survey.

Abd er Rahman, of course, could have found his way back quite easily; but, though he carried a Martini-Henri carbine, he was a vile shot, even at close range, as he funked the kick; moreover, he stood in such awe of Qway that I was afraid, if they met, he would come off second best in the event of a row, even with Dahab to back him up.

Ibrahim, however, cared no more for Qway than he did for an _afrit_ that threw clods, or for anyone else. With his flint-lock gun—bent straight by Abdulla—he was a very fair shot; but he was young and had had little experience of desert travelling, and I was very doubtful whether he would be able to find his way. When I questioned him on the subject, however, after a little hesitation and a long consultation with Abd er Rahman, he declared his willingness to try, and his brother said he thought he would be able to do it.

The next morning he set out with Dahab and the two worst camels, carrying all the empty tanks. His instructions were to get back as fast as possible to Mut, refill the tanks, and come out again as quickly as he could with a larger caravan, if he could raise one, and to beg, borrow or steal all the tanks and water-skins he could get hold of in the oasis, and to bring them all back filled with water. I gave him a note to the police officer, telling him what had happened and asking him to help him in any way he could. I gave him my second revolver and Dahab my gun, in case they should fall foul of Qway on the way, and then packed them off, though with considerable misgivings as to the result.

It was curious to see how the discovery that our tanks in the depot had been emptied, in spite of the difficulties that it created, cheered up the men. The feeling of suspense was over. We knew pretty well what we were up against, and everyone, I think, felt braced up by the crisis. Dahab looked a bit serious, but Ibrahim, with a gun over his shoulder, and suddenly promoted to the important post of guide to a caravan, even though it consisted of only two camels and an old Berberine cook, was in the highest spirits. I had impressed on him that the safety of his brother, his tribesman Abdulla and myself, rested entirely on his brawny shoulders, and that he had the chance of a lifetime of earning the much-coveted reputation among the _bedawin_ of being a _gada_ (sportsman)—and a _gada_ Ibrahim meant to be, or die. I had no doubt at all of his intention of seeing the thing through, if he possibly could. I only hoped that he would not lose his way.

Having seen him off from the depot on the way back to Mut, I turned camel driver and, with the remainder of the camels and all the water we could carry, set out with Abd er Rahman to follow up Qway’s tracks to relieve Abdulla. Abd er Rahman, too, rose to the occasion and started off gaily singing in excellent spirits. I had told him that I wanted to see whether he or Qway was the better man in the desert, and the little Sudani had quite made up his mind that he was going to come out top-dog.