The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sahara by Angus Buchanan

The author of this book is not merely an intrepid and successful explorer, but an accomplished biologist, who has added many new species of birds and animals to the ever-growing list of nature’s marvels. The desert of Sahara presents to the explorer many points of resemblance to the frozen wastes which surround the Poles, and to which so much attention has recently been directed. Its area is vast, its resources meagre in the extreme, the perils of travel great, and such as to test the highest qualities of the explorer. But here the resemblance ends. In the nature of the experiences and the hazards which the explorer encounters there could be no greater contrast, but oddly enough the man who can endure the one seems also fitted to withstand the other—of this Captain Buchanan is a living proof, for he, too, has been a traveller in Arctic regions.

This book is in no sense a diary of day-to-day travel. Only a single chapter is devoted to the account of the extraordinary journey which Captain[viii] Buchanan and his cinematographer, Mr. Glover, made from Kano in Nigeria to Touggourt in Algiers—a journey of over 3,500 miles through the great desert of Africa. Some idea of the hardships which they encountered may be gathered from the fact that, while they started with a caravan of thirty-six camels and fifteen natives, they finished with a single camel and only two natives, after fifteen months of travel. The reader is never wearied by monotonous logs of distances covered day by day or of the countless difficulties overcome on the long long trail. Only the last few days, when victory was in sight, are briefly sketched. But in earlier chapters we have vivid pictures of the perils that are inseparable from travel over vast sandy wastes, where a burning sun beats down with relentless fury, and where the lives of men and beasts alike depend on their finding water at least every six or seven days. One chapter describes one of the sandstorms that all but engulfed the caravan in the shelterless plain—another, the rare experience of torrential rain which may be almost as devastating, but, unlike the sandstorm, is fraught with blessing, for it brings food to the starving mammals that haunt the fringe of the great desert.

The author’s knowledge of the Sahara is not based merely on the one long journey which took him across its widest part. The book is partly based on a previous lengthy visit to the Sahara, during which he studied the fauna of the district as it has never been studied before, and the weird[ix] and impoverished races which are found in its habitable areas. The Sahara is not a mere plain of sand—it embraces more than one mountainous and picturesque area as large as Wales, but, unlike that country, arid in the extreme; besides numerous oases where a scanty subsistence is yielded by palms for small communities, and which are largely dependent on the visits of travelling caravans in quest of that most precious of all commodities—water. In these places, isolated by vast seas of desert, dwell the remnants of tribes once more numerous, who migrated thither when conditions were more favourable, for alas! Captain Buchanan’s observations lead him to the conclusion that the constantly accumulating sand-drifts are gradually destroying the already scanty resources of the still inhabited portions. Readers will find interest in his description of the two oases of Bilma and Fachi, both of which derive their subsistence from salt-mines, and whose dwellings and the forts which protect them are built entirely of blocks of salt, now blackened by age.

The perils of the desert are illustrated by the striking story of Rali, which forms one of the most vivid and entrancing chapters of the book. One of the nomad tribe of Tuaregs who lead a roving life amongst the few areas where pasturage of a kind is obtainable for their flocks, he was the victim of a dastardly raid in which his young and beautiful wife was carried off by a band of raiders. His adventures in seeking to recover her and avenge[x] himself on her captors are told with a rare insight into the character of the natives and their mastery of their environment. Strange to say, although the vast majority of the natives are predatory and cruel, the author came across one community of religious pacifists who have never organised any defence against persistent raids. As might be expected, these unhappy creatures live in the direst poverty, for, if they should by hard work accumulate any food or other commodities, they are promptly relieved of them by rapacious bands who live largely on the spoliation of their neighbours.

Naturalists will find ample evidence in the description of Saharan birds and mammals of the remarkable adaptation of the forms there existing to their arid environment. The appendices contain complete lists of the Saharan fauna.

It was in my dual capacity of President of the Royal Scottish Geographical Society and of the Zoological Society of Scotland that I had the privilege of making the author’s acquaintance by presiding at the first lecture which he delivered in Scotland on the result of his travels in the Sahara. This book, which embodies them in greater detail, should have a wide circle of readers if the appeal which it made to myself is any index of popular interest.

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

It is strange how the maddest of dreams come true in the end; provided one has faith to hold on to them dearly.

Twenty-one months before setting out on the journey recorded in these pages, when I was on my way back from the Northern Regions of Aïr, I remember, as clearly as if it was to-day, sitting in the dim, mud dwelling-room of the fort quarters at Agades discussing with Monsieur le Capitaine, in charge of that last outpost of French military administration, the prospects of my returning again at another time and undertaking further and greater exploration of that vast and mystical land that men know by the name Sahara.

At that time I had some acquaintance with the country, and, like other explorers, once having tasted the charm of discovery, I was eager to push onward into the dimmest recesses of the land, since it held, at brilliant moments, stirring promise of new and strange secrets of unknown character—secrets that shyly withdrew behind the mist of the desert’s horizon, dancing like will-o’-the-wisps, until[4] they disappeared, leaving behind a taste of temptation that beckoned alluringly.

Le Capitaine was a wise and experienced traveller and bushman—a man of iron; a man of understanding; and he fanned the sparks of my newly kindled ideas with such zest and earnestness that, in the late hours of our discussions, they enlarged to the magnitude of absolute ideals.

For that alone I owe Le Capitaine a debt of gratitude; but I have gratitude also for having met him and shaken his hand in friendship.

To-day men of Le Capitaine’s type are rare. He was, when I knew him, and is no doubt still, a pioneer; one of that little group of exceptional men who stand head and shoulders above the rank and file of their brethren in outdoor adaptability, and who leave a deeply cut mark on the furthermost frontiers of a nation’s colonies. Men of his type have the geography of Africa at their finger-ends in infinite outlines, great though Africa is, and under many flags. The ultimate future of all things is their particular study and concern, since men have time to think and ponder deeply over intimate problems who spend their lives in desperately lonely environment. And, above all else, these rare individuals are men of deadly earnestness and unquestionable honesty.

It is a delight to induce such men, in the aftermeal hours of merciful evening coolness, to discuss their schemes for the building of colonies and empires, and hear them lay out a network of[5] railways and enterprises from place to place, across a continent, with the clear precision and absolute accuracy that only is possible to the student who thoroughly knows his subject.

From the date of those camp-fire talks that carried us away into the midnight hours of the brooding, sand-surrounded fort, a second expedition to the Sahara was firmly planted in my mind.

But it was not until September 1921 that I found myself again free to think of continuing travel on natural history research, and was able to give to my dreams a definite shape.

At that time I wrote to Lord Rothschild’s Museum, and the British Museum, to ascertain their views of the zoological value of an extended journey right across the Sahara, starting from the West Coast of Africa and striking northward until the sea-coast of the Mediterranean was reached.

Encouraging replies were immediately forthcoming, and both these great Natural History Institutions were anxious that I should make the effort and offered to support me so far as lay in their power.

Their support made my decision to attempt a second expedition final; whereupon Lord Rothschild at once took steps, on my behalf, to forward, through the French Embassy in London, a request for official consent to be granted to the expedition’s travelling through the French territories of the Sudan and Sahara.

[6]But formal preliminaries of this kind move very slowly at times, and for four and a half months the matter lay unsettled and I lived in an atmosphere of uncertainty, doubtful as to the view the French authorities would take of a journey that was undoubtedly hazardous; doubtful, also, as to the date at which it might be possible to sail. If I was to make a well-timed start to catch the rains in barren areas of the Sahara in August or September, I estimated that I must set out not later than the 8th of March, on the West Coast ship sailing at that date.

Weeks slipped by. No word came from across the Channel. The 8th of March loomed nearer and nearer, and I grew restless and worried.

At last the time came when the French authorities said, “You may go.” And then there was gladness and bustle and transformation.

Everything in the way of equipment had to be secured in three weeks. My days were spent in London, flying here, there, and everywhere on seemingly endless shopping errands, until on the eve of sailing the entire equipment was tolerably complete.

I drove up to a large West-End establishment and asked the taxi-driver to wait, while, in company with my wife, I entered the shop.

I had told the taxi-driver I would not be long, but was detained almost an hour.

[7]My wife became anxious about the taxi-man’s temper, and, after considerable time had passed, went to pacify him.

“My husband won’t be long now,” she said. “You must excuse him; he is in there buying food for a year.”

“Gawd! Where’s he going, Miss?” the taxi-man exclaimed, and when my wife explained, “To explore the Sahara,” he got excited and thoroughly interested, and at once started to confide the news to a fellow taxi-man on another waiting cab.

This incident brings sharply before the mind the enormous contrast between a land of plenty and a land of poverty, while it makes us appreciate how much we rely on our everyday habit of shopping.

At home we have to think of little purchases of parcels for the needs of the day, and we suffer no severe penalty if something required has been overlooked, for any such omission can usually be rectified in an hour or so by ’phone, or message, or by a second call.

How different in the Sahara!—no shops; scanty food; less water—wilderness, often without living soul. Shopping that has to foresee every emergency for so long a time as a year or more in such environment is indeed a task of consequence. Not an item must be forgotten, big or little, and it is the little things that are the hardest to keep sight of (and to purchase, for that matter).

Yet, no matter how careful, after six months on the way, something is sure to be badly missed; some[8] provoking little thing, of increased importance the moment one is aware it is not to be had for love or money. Then, if you are kind, have pity, for the loss will be great and real. All must have some fellow feelings in such a circumstance, for has not everyone known what it is to be “put out” when some little purchase has been forgotten on the shop’s half-closing day? Half a day! For 365 days I have known what it is to do without things I believed were indispensable.

On the 8th March 1922, with equipment collected and complete according to views that were the outcome of previous experience, I sailed from Liverpool to land at Lagos; on the West Coast of Africa.

My companions were: Francis Rodd, who was to go with me as far as Aïr, on ethnological and geographical research, and the cinematographer of the expedition, T. A. Glover.

A drowsy, uncertain voice, casting a word or two across the darkness in search of comrade, disturbs my deep sleep of night. In a moment I am consciously awake.

I feel dreadfully heavy and muscle-weary, and my blanket seems the snuggest place on earth. But the laws of the wilderness are pitiless. The caravan is four days out from water, and has three more days to go—if we travel continuously.

With a groan, in protest and to pick up pluck, the mind wins obedience over jaded flesh, and with sudden forced resolve I jerk into sitting position on the sand, before I have time to change my mind.

My head camel-man, the owner of the drowsy voice, is stirring uneasily. Mindful of overnight orders, he has kept a faithful eye on the starlit sky and knows it to be about two hours from dawn— the time set for wakening the camp.

“Elatu! . . . Mohammed! . . . Gumbo!” I cry. “Wake up! . . . Hurry! . . . Load the camels!”

As darkness is known to those who live in houses,[12] it is still deep and utter night. But it is not so opaque to the wayfarer: the unroofed camp, under the great blue star-lit dome, can be made out grouped like a tiny island of dark, huddled boulders in a vast sea of sand, dimly visible for a distance. There is barely a suggestion of light. Yet it is there—that faint glow of a Saharan night, that is influenced by unobstructed skies and vast white plains of sand. The accustomed eye can almost “sense” the approach of day, but we know also by the position of the stars that the hour is 4 a.m., and that dawn will surely break at the appointed time.

The men gird travel-soiled garments about them. Instructions go forth with perfect understanding. Camels grunt and roar as they are head-roped and shifted from night-lairs to positions beside their loads.

In a little a fire flares up, bright and dim by turns, fed by the straw-leavings of overnight camel fodder.

By the fitful light stray ropes are recovered half buried in sand, or difficult loads secured; while Elatu, Mohammed, and the others work at a feverish pace so that the first animals loaded will not have to wait overlong for the last of their comrades.

It is harsh work, hard and exacting; but the men, skilled and able, go through with it. They have been with me for months. They are men of the Sahara, and I know that loads will be well[13] balanced and unerringly roped when, out on the trail, dawn breaks to reveal the merit of their workmanship.

The camp, deep in sleep and deadly still during the night, is now appallingly noisy in comparison with the vast quiet that lies outside its immediate circle. It is impossible to try to conceal our whereabouts. No matter if raiders, or the deadliest enemies of war, are at hand, the message of a camel-camp on the move goes out into the night unfettered—and the risk recognised.

One by one garrulous camels are released from knee-ropes that have kept them down, obedient to the task of loading, and rise from the sand to stand in dim outline, ready for the road, tall and gaunt, with jutting side-burdens.

Half an hour has passed, and still the caravan is not ready. It is foolish to be impatient. The groping work of the men in the dark seems provokingly slow; but patience, cheerfulness, and coolness are tonic for the moment—so the leader learns to wait, and make light of it—and reaps the gratitude of his henchmen in return.

“White Feather,” my faithful, travel-wise, long-tried camel, kneels beside me ready to move. I have seen to it that the riding-saddle—a slim, perched-on, Tuareg saddle of the Sahara—is comfortable on the animal, and secure and level, for it is to serve for many hours to come. On the long, hard day that lies ahead every detail is important. In their places, calculated with purpose to balance[14] on either side of the saddle evenly, are hung an old army water-bottle, a pair of field-glasses, a revolver, and two grass saddle-satchels with dates, tobacco, ammunition, and maps; while over the flanks drop leather buckets containing a shot-gun and a rifle.

It is too dark to see the worn condition of equipment, battered and broken by months of “roughing it” in the open; nor men who are rugged and hard, and lean as the camels they saddle, from strain of relentless effort. Yet those conditions are there, uncovered till kindness of night departs and reveals the sternness of endless enduring.

At the end of an hour we start, and two long lines of camels head northward into the darkness. And thenceforth the din, that was in camp, dies out; broken only once or twice, to begin with, as a camel protests while watchful native runs alongside to straighten an uneasy load.

Soon there is scarcely a sound, and the soft-footed caravan moves ghostlike over a great empty land that is dead.

The long, exacting march has begun, and another day’s effort to conquer the vastness of Space and Sand.

At the start the camels travel well. The men are slightly urging the pace by persuasive foot-pressure on the nape of the neck. They want to make the most of this hour, but they do not press the animals inconsiderately, for long, hot hours lie in front. Always the best pace of the day is[15] made during the cool hour before dawn and through the delightful hour succeeding it.

I ride alongside Elatu’s camel, up in front of the caravan, and enter into low conversation to gather the vital news of the morning. Elatu—a tall, lean Tuareg of some thirty years—is my head camel-man, and a ceaseless worker of exceptional ability. He is one of those very fine natives whom a white man may win and come to hold in esteem, conquered by sheer value of labour and fidelity.

Our minds are on the welfare of the caravan. “How sits the saddle on Awena this morning?” I asked. “Is the sore worse?”

“Yes,” Elatu answered. “But, before I slept last night, I made a rough cradle to try to keep the saddle from rubbing; and he carries his load to-day. But he cannot last. To be any good again he must reach a place to rest and recover strength, and heal the wound.”

“Owrak has no load to-day, nor Mizobe, and that swollen foot of Tezarif will give trouble before the sun sets.”

“Bah! This desert is no good. We know that camels must die. In my far-distant home I have seen them die since childhood. But Allah hits hard this moon [1]—and the way is yet far. We need our camels now.”

“That is bad news, Elatu,” I replied. “But we will get through—we always have—and we will again.”

[16]“Break up Awena’s load to-night when we camp and take him along empty, if he can walk—if not, we will have to turn him loose to take his chance, or shoot him, if there is no prospect of grazing. Split up his main baggage among the fittest animals, if you can—if not, we will have to risk letting some food go.

“Gumbo tells me Sili is ill this morning. I’m afraid he won’t last much longer, poor lad. He has been sick too often lately, and looks bad.” I passed Elatu two aspirin tabloids. “Give him those and make him ride all day with his eyes covered from the sun so far as possible. Also, let him have extra water if he wants it badly before the end of the day.”

Camels—men—food—water—those make up one endless round of anxiety to all who travel the vast, empty world that makes up uttermost desert. Therein Nature is antagonistic to anything that lives. Wherefore, to those who venture forth, life is alert to its very foundation, and the contest for existence severe, and often bitter. Long, weary days bring few successes, and many disappointments and failures; and great lessons of life are taught and comprehended, though few words go forth in complaint of those things of tragedy and disaster that men keep hidden away in the closed book of the soul.

I muse in my saddle over the strange gamble of it all, so similar, in plan, to the gamble of life,[17] familiar to most of us who have intimately known struggle for existence. But here the gamble is intensified, the material rude and raw, with vast wastes of barrenness immediate on all sides, and on the very threshold, ready to engulf and destroy the moment weakness is declared.

I am still pondering over this philosophy when I become aware that there is just a faint glow of light commencing to show in the east. It is the first indication of dawn.

Ever so slowly it increases till the distant line between earth and sky begins to form.

In a little time it is discerned that the light is coming from behind the earth, below the far eastern horizon.

We are alert to know the prospect of the landscape—hopeful of change to cheer our way. But, when the full expanse is revealed, the morning is as yesterday—no “land” in sight—nothing but the same old vast endless “sea” of sand that has come to be so familiar and so haunting.

But, with the light, comes a lifting of spirits. The men commence to chatter; and someone breaks into hopeful rhythmic song—a love-lilt of a tribe, reminiscent of home-fond memories. Others pick it up, rough-tuned and jazz-fashion, and a gay voice laughs after it has inserted a sly line or two of misquotation to point the words to a comrade’s sweetheart.

[18]And so are rough men wooed to cheerfulness, even in time of stress, by the soft magic hand of morn, and its influence, that resembles the touch of a woman’s caress. For a space, all too short, the caravan lives at its best, careless of aught but the hour.

Meanwhile, the first flush of day creeps on. And soon, away at the sand-end “Edge of the World,” the great golden sun, till now the hidden source of day, blazes suddenly into sight, in the east, shooting coloured shaft-rays in the sky by the very glory of its brilliance.

It is the signal for Mohammedan prayer, and I order the caravan to halt in consideration of the religion of my followers.

Facing the east, where far-off, in another world, lie Mecca and the Shrine of the Prophet, the men remove their sandals and, barefoot, reverently pray.

First they stoop to touch the ground with the palms of the hands, then pass them, dust-begrimed, over the face before they meet again, in an action that resembles washing. Then, standing, the prayer is commenced. Soon, the figures bend down to sit on the sand while continuously muttering softly modulated prayer, and dipping the forehead in the dust in moments of stress, or in gesticulations of respect.

Finally the prayer dies out restfully, and, by the subtle composure of the figures, the onlooker is conscious that the minds of the natives have settled in peace.

Let no man idly misunderstand or underrate the faith of these peoples of the East. It is a tremendous faith—and no single day may pass without deep worship and thought of Allah. It may be, in the Sahara, the faith of the primitive, the faith of an outdoor people, but it is complete and ever present. And who of us dare say so much of the Christianity of modern civilisation?

And this strength of religion has its political significance. Notwithstanding the French influence, and the venturings of missionaries, in parts that surround the Sahara, I am confident that, throughout the length and breadth of the desert to-day, its scattered peoples have, at heart, only the faith of Islam, and really admit true friendship and allegiance to the Caliph, and to none other. Wherever the wayfarer goes he will find the inner mind of the nomad turn ever to one magic name—“Stombole”—the Turkish centre in Constantinople, and the home of the Caliph.

Meantime, the sun has come completely into view; a great glowing orb, looking twice the size it will appear when later it is high in the sky.

[20]The time is 6 a.m. For an hour more we travel in comparative coolness; but by 9 a.m. we are into the full heat of day—that awful, dreaded heat, that constantly torments and sets out, without pity, to subdue and conquer the stoutest. In the desert the sun is master, cruel and remorseless beyond belief, with bleaching blaze that eats up life and kills. For the rest of the day the caravan must pass under the rule of its greatest enemy.

Throughout the morning the camels travel well and the spirit of the men is fairly cheerful. Though there is not much talking among them now, as they sit huddled on their camels with their gowns thrown over their heads as covering from the sun. They know well that it is wise to conserve their strength, for long, weary hours lie ahead.

We have been travelling close on two hundred days, and the ranks are sadly thinned, though the journey is not yet half completed.

There were sixteen natives at the start: now there are only six—Elatu, Mohammed, Sili, Gumbo, Sakari, and Ali. Most of the others have gone through fear of the dangers of the journey, lack of heart for the hard, endless work, physical weakness, and incurable sickness. (Two of the latter, left behind in good hands, to recover, when next heard of, had died).

There had been forty-four camels at the start; now there are but twenty-one. I have long learned[21] to know them by their native names. Those that are with us still are:

[22]I am conscious, as I look the caravan over, of a soft-hearted affection towards both man and beast. They have all served loyally, and have given of strength to the uttermost. Moreover, the whole caravan has come to embrace that free-and-easy, comprehending comradeship, that belongs to the wise when long on the great Open Road.

We have, therefore, as a body, lost all rawness and idle ornament. The weaknesses in our composition at the start have been found out and gone under. Battered, but hardened, we are travelling now as a band complete and experienced through grim wilderness of naked reality. The men that remain are of sterling quality, and all, except Sili, look like lasting through any amount of hardship.

But it is not so with the camels. Good as they are, they are not built to endure continuous work for ever; and the greatest struggle and sacrifice are theirs. No matter how much one may try to save them, the pitiless country claims its victims from their midst. All along the trail that lies behind I have witnessed their comrades go out, and know that, inevitably, others must follow. Indeed, too well I know that few, if any, will ever reach the goal; and that it will be left to others—that must be found among natives in remote oases—to carry us through to the North African Coast—if we are ever to reach our distant destination.

But all wayfarers in the desert become fatalistic, and the many misfortunes of the trail teach the[23] traveller to consign all disasters to “Kismet,” or “Mektuib”; for it is learned, sooner or later, that this is a land where Destiny irrevocably takes its course, whatever man’s hopes may be. Wherefore the deep eastern sadness that is found in the hearts of the nomads of the desert, and that touches the soul of the white man in the end.

We find that he has collapsed wearily on the sand and does not want to move. He is far through, but we cannot camp and wait beside him. So in a little time he is persuaded to rise to his feet again; and the caravan moves slowly on.

But it is not very long before the poor old fellow gives up again, for his is a losing fight in the full heat of the midday sun. We try for a little to encourage him to get up, but to no avail. He is past further struggle.

I order the caravan to move onward, and remain behind with Elatu, beside the prostrate animal, for I cannot leave the poor brute to die a slow, lingering death, with the agony of pitiless surroundings holding finality immediately before his eyes.

When the caravan is distant there is a single revolver shot—and we are one less in our band.

Even although it is only an animal that has gone, Death casts a shadow that disturbs the[24] human mind; and Elatu and I ride forward to rejoin the caravan with a pang of sadness in our hearts.

But such feelings are soon deadened of further thought. Shut out and overpowered by the throbbing, awful heat of the day, which has now reached its worst.

It is a heat that is tremendous; unbelievably trying, unless one has experienced it in actual fact. The full rays of the noonday sun blaze directly and intensely overhead, scorching the earth as a furnace blast; while hot-baked desert sands reflect the heat like the tray of an oven. It is small wonder that the caravan, oppressed by a pitiless force that attacks both from overhead and underfoot, wilts as a thing that is withering and sorely exhausted. In naked truth, man and beast of our little band are at the full mercy of a tyrant, and toil, yard by yard and mile by mile, slowly onward, sticking to the allotted task, because it is fated so to toil in the great ways of the desert. The shoulders of the camel-men are drooped languidly, and no one speaks; while head-coverings are drawn more and more closely about their faces in attempt to fight off the sun and protect eyes that are wearied to actual pain by the dazzling, incessant glare on the sand.

But, through all, the camels keep ever on, though ever since the sun’s great heat set in their[25] pace has slowed down—and, now, they are just crawling onward on their patient unquestioned task.

Hour after hour the monotonous ride continues. Our band, a mere handful of outgone men who for the present are victims of circumstance destined, as it were, to travel the very plains of Hell, steeped in awful heat and desolation, from which there can never be real escape until that distant “Dreamtime” when we may come to pass out and beyond to a promised land where weary limbs and weary minds may lay them down and rest.

About 4 p.m. Tezarif (the camel that has contracted an ugly swelling in one of her feet) is lagging badly, and pulling hard on the rope that secures her to the camel in front. I shook up Gumbo, dozing and listless from long, comfortless riding, and bade him dismount and get beside the ailing camel to encourage her on and to keep up with the others.

Obediently the man jumped down, and I dropped back with him so that I might talk and keep him to his irksome task. Thereafter he remained beside the camel, encouraging and driving it to keep up with the caravan. And when Gumbo tired, another took his place. So, at the expense of considerable effort, the sick animal is kept to the trail.

And in this way the long afternoon passed on, until, at last, the sun commenced to relax its grip on the earth, and gradually the caravan recovered a certain measure of wakefulness.

[26]Yet man and beast show that they are now very tired. None of the brief, bright gayness of the morning is present, even although the merciful retreat of the sun makes the evening hour delicious and tempting. The fact is that spirits are wearied beyond caring for aught on earth—except a longing to rest and sleep.

About 6 p.m. the hot day closes over the heated earth, as the tyrant sun sets in gorgeous beauty amidst rainbow tints of every hue that mistily touch both earth and sky with magic wand, and belie the terror of that pitiless reign that has passed.

On, through the dusk we travel—and into the night. Body and soul ache for the word to halt and camp; but still we hold on. All know the need that drives us to uttermost effort—need to reach water—and the goal still a long way ahead.

The night is strangely still. The desert’s lack of living creature is more intimately apparent now than through the day, for the vast range of our daylight surroundings has narrowed to our immediate circle, which is no more than a thin line of passage cleaved through thick banks of blackness. In our path no jackal cries; no hyena laughs. Neither does ground-bird twitter, nor wings of night-flight ruffle the air. Nothing moves, nothing lives. We can almost “hear” the silence, it is so acute; and the noiseless feet of the camels move over the sand as if they were ghosts, afraid of disturbing a land of the dead.

[27]If you have ever waited, with deep anxiety, for a precious sound—the cry that tells you that a lost comrade has been found, or, a sound-signal that fulfils a vital appointment after it has kept you, tuned to expectancy, waiting overlong in suspense—you must know one of the greatest joys that can fall on human ears, when, by a sudden whim of chance, the world gives up the message you have prayed for. It had gone 9 p.m. when I drew my camel to a halt, and shouted “Subka!” The effect of revival along the caravan was startling. It was the glad signal that everyone was aching for—the signal that meant “Camp at last” and “Rest.”

And a great sigh of gladness went up from the hearts of the weary men, as they dropped stiffly from their camels and started to unload.

There was no need to urge the camels to get down. We had no sooner halted than each sank to the sand, leg-weary beyond the telling—for sixteen long, weary hours their feet had never ceased to pass onward over the desert.

We had camped in our tracks; there was no choice of ground—nothing but endless sand, duneless and featureless.

Stiffly the men moved about; they were overtired for the work of unloading and accordingly it moved slowly. When everything was off-loaded the poor fellows sat in dazed fashion on various bundles of kit gaining a breathing spell of rest for deadened minds and aching limbs, utterly careless[28] of further effort. Gladly would the most spent of them sleep as they are without food, without water and without a thought of the morrow; overpowered by the forces of utter fatigue. But Elatu and I are watchful, for we have been through these experiences before, and we shake them up to keep awake. The last tasks of the camp are completed—a bale or two of rough Asben hay, carried for the camels, is unroped and fed to them, a ration of water issued to the men, while, one by one, small husbanded camp-fires broke into light, speedily to cook a frugal meal, devoured by men who needed it sorely.

Half an hour from the time of halting the whole camp is wrapped deep in sleep—a dog-tired and dreamless band, at rest at last; mercifully unconscious of the toil that is past or the toil that awaits them on the morrow.

[29]An Explanation

The foregoing is an account of a day in the world’s greatest desert; a day in the heart of the Sahara—travel at its worst; not at its best—that is what I have endeavoured to describe.

We were then about 200 days out, and the camel-caravan travelled 405 days before the end, so it may be that I have learned a little of the desert.

Should that be so, and should pen be able and reader forgiving, I humbly try, in the contents of this book, to set down something of a little-known land; going swiftly to the subject I would reveal, and not slowly along the trail where the footprints of my camels were sometimes all that there was to record over oceans of wasting sand.

In a previous book, Out of the World, I dealt with the journey of a 1st Saharan Expedition so far as the region of Aïr: wherefore this work endeavours to touch almost entirely upon new ground (beyond Aïr) explored on my last and more comprehensive expedition across the entire Sahara.

“I am not riveted nor screwed together, neither am I steel plate nor seasoned timber: wherefore I am not like ship of the sea in physical construction.

“But I rock when under way, and am thin ‘keeled’ when gales blow, so that ungenerous men-people say that I am clumsy and gawky.

“However, we animal creatures think slowly but with wisdom, and we know that men-people are apt to hurry to opinions that have, sometimes, little solidity. Therefore, since appearances do not matter at all in the land I travel, I treat their gibes with silent scorn, for the great desert asks only one thing: Endurance—aye, endurance to the point of death.

“Wherefore my rivets and screws and tested ‘steel’ lie not on the surface, but in joints and sinews developed through stern adventurings that demand that a craft be strong-rigged, and stout of heart, and fearless of the uttermost seas of the desert.

[34]“Regarding my early history: I was born on the plains of Talak among the camps of the Tuaregs. I was soon taken from my mother, since her milk was wanted for food for the camp. I bellowed wildly in distress for some days, but to no purpose: I was staked beside a tent and thenceforth watched and hand-fed by women-people. I can remember that I was often very hungry, even in those days, and called lustily whenever it was anywhere near time for me to be brought my morning or evening milk. I was very young and very uninstructed then, and was not to know that hunger is that which is of greatest import in the lives of all camels.

“For a long time I stayed beside the tents of my masters. Then there came a time when I had grown big enough to be allowed to graze near camp through the day, but I was never left out overnight, because of the ill-scented animals I feared.[2]

“While I was still little I was taught to follow the caravans on short journeys, running alongside my mother without rope or hindrance of any kind.

“Then came a time when I had to bear a grass-padded saddle and a small weight on my back. But I was growing big and strong by then, and, after the first fear had passed, I did not mind the task greatly, especially as I was allowed to join the other camels more often and keep close to my nice old mother.

“One day, when I was six years old, there arose much stir in camp. The men-people commenced[35] to gather in all camels, and I knew there was something afoot. At first, we camels, putting our heads together, hoped it was only to be a movement to new grazing ground. But we soon decided otherwise, during the few days that followed, as we watched our masters busily working with saddles and roping bundles, while strangers came in to join them from other camps. Then, one morning, at dawn, after much noise of loading, and chatter of farewell, we were all tied in line and set out from the camp of Talak; leaving behind only the women-people and their children and a few old men-people.

“Although as yet inexperienced in great distances, like all my kind, I required no master to instruct me in sense of direction; and I soon knew that we were heading south, which is the direction of least dread in the teachings of camel lore.

“But I soon lost interest in everything about me under the weight of terrible fatigue; for, day after day, we had to travel perpetually over hot sand and beneath wearying, fiery sun, kept sternly to the trail by our travel-wise hard-riding masters. We had little rest, and not much time to eat. All grew fretful, and plaintive lowings pleaded with the men-people for consideration, but they knew their task better than we, and kept on unflinchingly, though no less tired than ourselves.

“We camped fifty nights on that journey, and I will never forget it. For the first time I learned what desert travel really meant.

[36]“At last, after travelling out of the desert and through country with many trees, the like of which I had never seen at Talak, we reached a strange town, and the men-people camped. There our loads were undone and we were all turned free to eat our fill and rest to our heart’s content. Men-people called the town Katsina.

“Eventually I came to stay there for many moons, for, before my master went back to the Plains of Talak, in the course of his tradings he made a bargain whereby I was exchanged for six lengths of cotton clothing that he desired for the people of his tribe. And thus I came to pass into the herds of the Emir of Katsina, one of the greatest men in the land.

“For two years, thereafter, I had an easy life, being asked to make but few journeys to Kano, Zaria, and Sokoto, in country that was not of the poverty of my old home. Wherefore I had nearly always food to eat, and accordingly grew big and strong.

“But at the season when water fell from the clouds, in that country, I was not happy. It was cold and wet to sleep at nights, and flies tormented me that were not of the desert, so that at such times I longed for my old wind-swept home at Talak. That is the season when I, and all my comrades, pine to go north into the desert, like the addax and oryx of the bush-scattered plains.

“While I remained at Katsina the men-people who guarded me called me Zaki.[3] And on festival[37] days I was bedecked with a bright-coloured saddle and head-rein, and made to run, with others, as fast as ever my legs could go. When I was in front, when we finished running, my master was very pleased; so I learned to be in front very often, for I was given nice things to eat afterwards—grains that the men-people grow that are passing sweet to taste.

“But there came a time when this life of ease and pleasure was all abruptly changed. Like most drastic changes, it was utterly unexpected. I and my comrades were browsing peacefully in the bush, as usual, one morning, when men-people of the Emir appeared suddenly among us with ropes, and a certain gravity of expression. After considerable consultation, while doubtless appraising our condition, they began to pick out those of us that were the strongest; with the ultimate result that some twenty of us, including myself, were banded together and driven off into the town.

“By eventide we were marshalled in a caravan camp of strangers, and the Emir’s men-people awaited the pleasure of the chief of the gathering. When he came forward I saw that he was not like the people of Talak or Katsina, but white as the sand or the midday sun. This stranger looked us over one by one, lifting feet, feeling joints, and prying into mouths, the while he asked questions of our guardians in their own tongue, but in an unusual voice. When he came to me he seemed highly pleased, and asked more questions than of[38] the others. I thought, with out-bubbling pride of youth, that this was because I was of the uncommon white colour, that all chiefs prefer to any other, and clean limbed, and coming now to the years of my prime. But one of my comrades was also white-haired, and there again the stranger paused longer and asked more questions, so that I decided that my vanity had been premature.

“The upshot of the examination was that three camels were discarded and sent away with the Emir’s men-people, while all of us that stayed behind were taken over by the white stranger.

“Next day we were roped and trussed and hurt for a few moments by a stinging fire,[4] from which there was no escape; and thereby knew that we had irrevocably changed masters, for only at such times, when it is necessary to denote ownership, are we treated in this manner.

“This marked the beginning of my experience as a true traveller of the desert. My new master’s caravan left Katsina almost at once, and headed north—and I was to come to learn that we were ever to hold in that direction; even to the region of Talak, and leagues upon leagues beyond. It was, in fact, only the commencement of many, many moons of mighty travel of duration that few camels experience in a lifetime and but seldom survive.

“I was given a load to carry during the first few days; a strange box-load, that frightened me to begin with. But the men-people of my new master,[39] who were the same as the people of Talak, knew their work and watched me, and soon they made my burden fit comfortably, so that I learned to travel without fear. Nearly all my comrades carried similar box-loads, which was a curious thing in our eyes, because they were so different from the bales of the men-people of our land.

“At that time my master was riding a brown camel, the one that had brought him to Katsina. But I had noticed that he watched me while we plodded along the trail, and, therefore, I was not altogether surprised when, before starting one morning, I was taken before him without any load. Perhaps the men-people of the Emir had told him I could run very fast and had been ridden; for, in a little, his riding-saddle was placed on my back, made to fit me, and strapped securely. I made no move in protest, for past experience had taught me that it is far better to be ridden by a master than to carry a load that is nearly twice the weight. While I was still seated on the ground he came and spoke to me in his strange voice, while, for the first time, I felt his hand caress my neck and knew, even in that momentary touch, that he was not cruel.

“My new master rode me all that day—and that was the beginning of a great friendship. He would go nowhere without me afterwards, and I cannot count the days I carried him over the unfrequented seas of the desert, either with the caravan, or on long hunting trips that he sometimes made alone.

[40]“At first my master did not ride so easily as the camel-men of our land, being more stiff and ungiving of poise; but, as he became familiar with my gait, that alien insensibility passed and we travelled as one.

“I found I had one fault that annoyed my master. Through being badly frightened, when young, by an evil-smelling animal that pounced at me, I could not refrain from being startled whenever I saw any black object close to me on the sand. At such times I would suddenly plunge madly and retreat, while my master said quick words and bore hard on the rein. Then he would persevere until he had forced me to go nearer and nearer to the object I dreaded; until I could see that it was only a tree-stump or a rock and could not harm me. Nevertheless, it took me many months to overcome this impulse of fright, though, always, my master persevered to show me there was no actual danger.

“It was chiefly on account of this trait that I was given the name by which my master called me: Feri n’Gashi, which, I believe, meant ‘White Feather’ in native tongue, and this, in his language, was a term applied to anyone showing signs of cowardice. But the name also referred to my white coat of hair. My master often spoke in a curious tongue that was foreign to me, but, as time went on, I came to understand that he gradually lost all thought of associating my name with any insinuation of fear.

“Moon followed moon in the wilderness, and[41] time, and close association, brought thorough understanding. And I came to love my master, as I am sure he loved me. He was often kind in the hardest hours of stress, when I was grievously hungry and leg-weary, and apt to lose heart altogether in the interior of the terrible desert. He would dismount for an hour or more, sometimes, and search in the surroundings for a few handfuls of vegetation which he would bring to me to eat, while I kept on along with the others of the caravan. And at nights, if he could manage it, he brought me tit-bits that I saw the others did not get.

“And so it came about that I always watched my master wherever he happened to be; and that was in many places, for he was ever restless, and never idle. When we were turned loose at an encampment, to find what grazing we could pick up, I would raise my head whenever I saw him afar off, returning on foot from hunting for meat, or the curious things that he gathered—all of which had different and alarming scents to my inquiring nostrils—and when he reached the encampment I would leave my comrades and go to see him, for he would surely pat me kindly, while, sometimes, when there was sufficient water, he allowed me to drink from the basin he had washed in; and that was sweet in the desert, although the portion was ever so little.

“As the long, long journey progressed, through distance of time too great to count, many of my comrades weakened and fell out, and some died;[42] and there came a time when only a few were left. Like all my comrades, I had vastly changed by then, being lean, and tired out by constant strain of travel, lack of sufficient food, and worry through fear of the unknown country we traversed. And, at nights, in my anxiety, I sometimes sought my master when he slept, and, after sniffing him to be assured of his presence, would lie down to rest near at hand, gaining thereby confidence and some comfort.

“It was during this period of ever-increasing strain that my master met with a distressing accident. To carry the loads of my dead or exhausted comrades, some fresh camels were collected from men-people of a rocky land of name I did not comprehend. They were animals of a wild region, and had been long free on the ranges, so that they greatly feared the hand of men-people. When they first felt the weight of my master’s boxes on their backs they plunged wildly in all directions, and everything was scattered to the ground. Yet patiently the men-people worked with them, coaxing and replacing the fallen loads; until, finally, we were all led into line ready to start. But just at that moment there was further disaster and a wild stampede, and my master, holding hard to the head of the maddest brute of all, was suddenly kicked to the ground as the animal plunged free. And there he lay, while others rushed blindly over him in their consternation, trampling him underfoot, until a quick-witted camel-man rushed in and dragged him clear; which, mayhap, saved his life.[43] Then it was seen that he was bleeding profusely, and could no longer walk.

“For some days afterwards he lay and could not move, and I wondered what would become of my master.

“When next I saw him he had long sticks below his arms and walked strangely and slowly. On recommencing travel he could no longer ride in the saddle, because of a helpless leg, and was placed, with soft clothing, on the top of the boxes carried by one of my old comrades. For the first time since the start I was without my master. But he did not give me a load to carry, nor let another take his place, and I was allowed to walk behind him with the empty saddle.

“So soon as he could manage, he came to ride me again, and I was glad. I knew he was not strong then, for I could feel a strangeness in his seat, and was therefore gentle on the trail, so that I might not jar or hurt him.

“But he jumped from the saddle no more, not even to hunt, as had been his constant custom up till then. Yet, so far as lay in his power, he was restless as always, and still tried to search in strange nooks and corners, when they chanced by the trail. He accomplished his purpose, to some extent, by riding me where he wanted to go, and making his noise-piece go off when he sighted that which he sought. I know I was clumsy on such occasions, and that my master was not altogether happy in this makeshift way of hunting, but he made the best of it.

[44]“It was about two months after this time that the desert ended, and the remnants of my master’s caravan crawled into a strange town where the people were foreign to me, as was the scent in the air. I was alone, except for my master, for none of my comrades of Katsina were left; and I had a heavy heart. I could see my master was happy, yet strangely sad. He stroked me often while the loads were being taken away and stacked in a pile, and I felt he would have liked to break down the barriers of dumbness and articulated words in my own language. And I understood, and rubbed my soft nose against him.

“After a time the men-people gathered us all together and led us away down the street of the strange town. We had gone but half-way when my master’s servant came running after us, and I was taken back to him.

“He stood beside me and stroked me ever so gently, and I knew, then, that his heart was heavy as mine. And then I was led away down the strange, unfriendly street again.

“I was terribly tired: I knew, somehow, that I would never see my master again—and that is all I remembered.”

Feri n’Gashi died, without the slightest sign of illness or pain, about one hour after our parting, marking one of the saddest experiences in my life and the passing of one of the noblest animals that ever lived.

Twice, in the course of my travels, I have found myself in great wildernesses that gave me no field of comparison until I turned to thought of the boundless sea—and then I had a simile that was almost complete. These wildernesses were: Arctic Canada and the Great Sahara.

With desire to describe the Sahara, and its ocean-like vastness, I have sketched a map that lies before me (see opposite page)—and I am disappointed. It is only some inches square. My Sahara that, for the sake of lucid explanation, I want to represent as the ocean, could be covered with a dinner plate; and might be a duck-pond, or a trout lake with an island or two, if, for a single moment, I forget the niceties of proportion and scale. That, precisely, is an influence on the senses that it is well to guard against because of the possibility of it turning the mind from reality, for, no matter how willing and piercing the scrutiny, this insignificant little sheet of paper can never be the actual Sahara.

And, after all, it is only the Real that matters; particularly to the frontiersman who lives close[48] to the earth and beyond the ken of the subtleties of Civilisation, for he sees, with the eye of the untrammelled, the dominion of the world’s outer ranges and the bigness of things as they are. Wherefore, with pen directed by hand accustomed to rope a load, coax a rein, fondle a rifle, heal a wound, or kindle a camp-fire, I set out, as an awkward man of the outdoor places, without geographical technicalities, to describe the Great Sahara as I have come to read its character in the wake of many a trail over leagues of intimate sands.

Let us first endeavour to picture something of the vastness of the Sahara. In approximate area—excepting the Libyan Desert—it is about eighteen times larger than Britain and Ireland and about half the area of the United States. Large as that may seem, it must be taken into count that there is a sentimental vastness far beyond that—the sentiment of environment. To illustrate this. Suppose that one sets out to travel for a day, or a week, or a month, through rich, inhabited country with good roads, and with the good things of life always closely about one. Is it not the case that the plenitude of the countryside pleases to such a comforting extent that Distance is prone to be unesteemed, and unthought of as a cause for anxiety? Consequently, under such circumstances, all fear of distance, and the significance of overpowering immensity, do not enter into calculation. But it so happens that that is a tremendously important[49] factor, which must always be reckoned with, in any considered treatment of the Sahara, where conditions are entirely opposite. No one would hesitate to cross America to-day, but could anyone contemplate a journey in the Great Desert without, at once, being confronted with lively dread of its vastness and desolation? Indeed, so strong is this influence that the eventual result, once one enters that mystical land, is that the mind becomes almost disqualified to reckon in terms of numerals. All that one is constantly aware of is, that limitless leagues of drear desolate sand lie ahead, and that, no matter what effort is made, no matter how well the caravan travels, the twenty or thirty odd miles that are the record of a day’s endeavour leave one apparently in the same position as before, with horizon, and sand, and sky no nearer to the vision than from camps that lie on the trail behind.

In that prospect there is, surely, a sentiment of the temperament of the sea, in likeness of boundless, unchanging, unconquerable leagues. But the sea swings and curls and breaks in foam, and is alive; whereas the sands of the desert lie ever expressionless and dead. So that, if we accept that in majestic space the sea and the desert are the same, we still have to admit that the lassitude of the desert multiplies the seeds of desolation to such an extent that, almost tangibly, certainly sentiently, it enlarges its empty vastness.

Wherefore I am confident that it is in all such[50] intriguing influences that we find the very essence of the desert’s desolation and magnitude of space.

That it has a very real vastness that intimidates is borne out, in our everyday life, by the accounts of tourists who have travelled in Algeria, or elsewhere, and who have been a few days south of, say, Biskra by camel, and who return to recount how they have seen the Sahara. How many such tourists have stood on this mere threshold of a mighty sandscape, beneath the Aurès Mountains, and conjectured on the immensity of the Great South Road that points the way to the heart and the mystery of another world, unyieldingly remote, and not as theirs.

And what happens then? Why is it that we do not have record that some of those tourists have got down from this doorstep of Biskra and set out into the Great Desert? If it was a fair land that lay before them most surely they would flock upon the way. But it is not so, and no foot makes the move. They have viewed an awe-inspiring immensity that casts a deadly spell of dread. And, one by one, year by year, they are repelled and go their way; back through the friendly mountains. After all, this is far from astonishing of strangers, for they but express something of the deep-rooted, superstitious dread of the desert which is found in the soul of every native who lives anywhere within reach of its borders, or in its interior.

Furthermore, it may be well to remember that the Sahara is a land of great antiquity, that takes[51] one to realms of Biblical times. Steeped in the religion of Islam, it knows little perceptible change to-day, and is not on a plane with the modern world. Wherefore, even if we only set our minds back in keeping with a not very distant period of the past, it is not difficult thus to find another simile to the sea in picturing that it was only a little more than four centuries ago that the Atlantic Ocean probably held a similar dread of immensity before Columbus discovered America.

All those influences are important, for they can never be brought out on any map, and yet they are an intrinsic part of the land. Furthermore, they are a part of the poignant forces that teach the traveller wonderment and awe of the desert when he camps in the mighty company of its gigantic spaces; particularly if he catches a gently poised breath of the Moslem’s “Allah!” which is an indelible part of the mystic sadness it holds.

If we look, now, at the map, and picture that the Sahara is, broadly speaking, a vast sheet of sand with a few island mountains, it will suffice in dealing generally with its boundaries of the past.

It is my belief that the Sahara is increasing in size, and I think there are many conditions that go to prove it. Wherefore I ask you, in the first place, to conceive that the sand in the desert has steadily risen, with consequent result that the shores have become appreciably less. The belt that has been so engulfed all around the margin, or wherever the surface was shallow, may be taken[52] to represent the regions that are to-day pre-Saharan, though, so far as I am aware, such pre-Saharan areas are seldom more than vaguely referred to, and have not been geographically defined.

I will take, as an example, the southern area of the Sahara, because I have visited it more than once and know that region best. Not vastly distant from the shore there is the mountainland of Aïr, standing high above the surrounding country. Let us suppose that, before the Sahara commenced to fill up and change, this particular mountainland was not surrounded by sand, but was a part of a fertile foreland, and that the bushland of the Western Sudan, with its tropical fauna and vegetation and rainy season, either jutted out as a wedge or stretched right across Africa about the 20th degree of latitude, or 5 degrees farther north than obtains, with any solidity, at the present time.[5] If that was the case intimate problems that I have had to contend with would be logically explained.

My primary work in the Sahara was that of a field naturalist, and the following extracts from Dr. Hartert’s paper in Novitates Zoologicæ, May 1921, regarding my first journey, have bearing on one of the problems that I wish to deal with:

“The best zoogeographical boundary, apart from the oceans, has hitherto been the Sahara, a wide belt of poorly inhabited and unexplored country.[53] As long as we knew very little about it, this was a very simple question—north of the Sahara palæarctic, south of it Ethiopian. This contention, however, was bound to be shaken to some extent when the Sahara (as it is marked on maps) became zoologically explored. Until the second decade of this century the Great Desert had only been touched by zoological collectors on some of its borders.

“Looking at any map, a somewhat large mountainland, Aïr, or Asben, catches the eye in the middle of the Sahara, on older maps and in textbooks called an ‘Oasis,’ which is, however, a most misleading name for a mountainous country with desert tracks and valleys, towns and villages, and mountains rising up to about 2,000 m. in height.

“Zoologically Aïr remained absolutely unknown until Buchanan’s expedition. We knew already, from Barth’s Travels, that Aïr has tropical vegetation, that some valleys are fertile and contain good water, that ostriches, lions, giraffes, birds were seen by him, that near Agades he observed monkeys and butterflies. Jean, in 1909, in his book, Les Touaregs du Sud-Est, l’Aïr, mentions lions in the mountains of Timgue and Baguezan, foxes, hyenas, cats, antelopes, monkeys, but he adds that giraffes do not now exist in the country, and that the ostrich is not found north of Damergu.

“Meagre as these statements are, they proved that the fauna of Asben is chiefly, if not entirely, tropical. This is borne out by Buchanan’s collections. Of the birds nearly all—apart from migrants—may be called tropical species or subspecies. The mammals are on a whole Sudanese, and not found in Algeria proper. The Lepidoptera are essentially Saharan, many forms being similar to those found by Geyr and myself in the Sahara[54] between the Atlas and Tidikelt, and the Hoggar Mountains.

“The boundary between the palæarctic and tropical fauna may therefore be regarded as fairly fixed to about the 20th degree of latitude, though it is, of course, not a hard-and-fast dividing line, there being many exceptions—even among birds, which form the main basis of these notes.”

Again, in a further paper in Novitates Zoologicæ, March 1924, dealing with my second expedition, Dr. Hartert adds:

“More than ever it is clear that the ornis of Aïr is tropical, as a country where Sunbirds, Barbets, Glossy Starlings, etc., live has a tropical ornis, though there are a number of palæarctic species, to which now a few must be added. On the other hand, these striking tropical families like Sunbirds, Glossy Starlings, Emerald Cuckoos, Hornbills, Barbets, are absent from the Ahaggar (Hoggar) Mountains, and the almost lifeless desert between Aïr and Ahaggar forms the boundary between the palæarctic and tropical African faunas.”

From all this it is clear that Aïr maintains many tropical influences that penetrate northward, like a wedge, far into the Sahara, although its surroundings are foreign to like conditions. For instance, regarding the last remark, if we draw longitudinal lines 200 miles or so clear of either side of the Aïr Mountains, immediately those lines leave the southern shores of the Sahara, about[55] latitude 15°, they enter desert where all tropical influence ceases.

If we ponder over the thought that the Sahara is increasing in sand, and size, is it not conceivable that this mountainland of Aïr is as an island that, because of its altitude, is left high and dry out in the open while the plains surrounding it have been gradually smitten as by a plague that has slowly driven back the line of fertility, while that which remains, as representative of a configuration of the past, is the rugged rock land that still offers a bold front to the advances of time and decay?

I am confident that therein lies the truth—that formerly a wide pre-Saharan region of fertility once reached much farther north than at present; and, when it became flooded over with rising sand, and lost, Aïr still remained, and, behind the shelter of its rocks, retained a good deal of its old characteristics. All around the Sahara I believe that conditions of a similar nature exist.

Wherefore the vast arid interior, made up chiefly of rock and sand, may, to-day, be likened to a pear that has rotted at the core, and that cannot be prevented from increasing the consuming advance of an unhealthy interior that grows outward, and ever larger in circle.

Stern and drastic though they are, I am prepared to accept those theories because they are in keeping with the nature of the country. Moreover, they lead to the solution of problems that ever bring me back to the source that is the cause of[56] every change in the land—which I read to be decay.

To make clear this perpetual insinuation of decay, which is everywhere in the atmosphere of the Sahara to-day, I will endeavour to cite a few instances that have bearing on the subject.

First, reverting to the topic of the tropical life in Aïr. In 1850-51 Barth stated that he saw giraffes and ostriches, yet in 1909 we find that Jean wrote that “Giraffes and ostriches do not exist in Aïr.” Both those travellers, however, recorded lions in the region, but in 1922, though I hunted particularly for lion, because of those very records, I could find neither trace nor track of a single specimen. All that my diligent investigations revealed was that one had been killed at Aouderas in 1915, and another, the last, in 1918 by the Chief of Baguezan. I believe them to be extinct in Aïr to-day. To give an opening for the further continuance of this sequence of singular disappearance of wild life, I can state that, at the present time, wart-hog and guinea-fowl live in Aïr—and I have actual specimens to prove it—but I am tolerably sure that travellers who may follow in my footsteps will come to find that both have disappeared within the next half-century or so.

As the people are dying out also, these changes cannot be accounted for on the score of huntsmen. It is, I maintain, the natural result of increasing sand and the drying up and dying out of vegetation. Giraffes and ostriches have departed from[57] a land that can no longer nourish them, and lions have disappeared because the gazelle which they hunted have grown scarce, and open water-holes are a rarity. Eventually the wart-hog and guinea-fowl will vanish from the land for like reasons.

Furthermore, Nature accepts no denial to her whims of devastation, wherever they rule, and, in the Sahara, the sweep of her scythe has taken, in its path, the mowing down of the very people of the land, who depart, like the creatures of the wild, when the struggle for existence becomes no longer possible. Hence, in Aïr alone, there are scores of stone-built villages deserted and in ruins, and steeped in pathos, no longer harbouring a single living soul.

In those, and in other ways, we learn that decay is sure. The elusive problem is to gauge the duration of its reign, which can only be conjectured, since the history of the Sahara is unwritten. It may have set in a very long time ago, and be moving slowly, or it may have been active but a few centuries.

That it has altered the aspect of the land is, to my mind, undoubted. Here is an instance of the kind that sets one thinking. South of Aïr, in country that is now desert, there is a well of astonishing age, named Melen, in a basin surrounded by low hills of bare, rough, stony nature. It is sunk through solid rock to a depth of 70 feet, and is old beyond all calculation. One looks down its depth and speaks in a hushed voice, and the dark chamber booms back a whole volume of sound; a pebble is dropped to the bottom and the splash[58] of it sounds like the lashing of surf on the sea-coast. The wall of the well is seared, in a remarkable way, with deep channels worn in the solid rock by the friction of bucket-ropes that have passed up and down the well—for who knows how long? It seems almost impossible that they have been worn in an era within historic times. The well offers a problem. There is no good grazing around it; no means that would, to-day, enable a band of men to camp there for a prolonged period while they laboured (with rock-drilling implements, of which there is no record) on the tremendous task of sinking the shaft through solid rock. Natives have no knowledge of how the work was accomplished. Therefore I try to set back the hands of Time and look over the land, imagining it as once covered with vegetation for herds of camels and goats, and with pools of water in the low hills. And, as a dreamer, I conjure up a picture of a past when, mayhap, a tribe of happy nomads camped in the hollow, in olden times, with everything in the neighbourhood that they required for themselves and their herds; and the old chief of the camp setting out to keep his slaves employed, at a time of plenty, in drilling this well, maybe partly as a whim, and partly to be assured of water for his people in the height of an over-long summer.

Since visiting Melen I have travelled far in the Sahara, and know many wells in like God-forsaken places, each of which suggests that it belongs to a bygone age when greater fertility made it possible[59] for the nomads to camp where they willed, which—if we take such wells as significant—was sometimes in localities that they cannot camp in now.

Wherefore, in many strange ways, it comes back to one, always, that the Sahara is a decadent land. And that is a steadfast impression, that the traveller is always catching, even when least expected.

And, now, to broadly picture the aspect of the country, the Sahara is not, of course, as is often popularly believed, simply a vast track of desert sand. The “floor” of its vast area is made up, principally, of four types of country, which I describe as follows, along with the names by which they are known to the nomads:

[60]As a whole all those regions are practically horizontal, and, except in the north, are on a level well above the sea. Between longitude 5° and 10°, from south to north, the altitudes of the Saharan plains, above sea-level, are approximately:

The widespread aspect of the Sahara is of vast desolate plains of rock and sand. But a fact which has been overlooked to an astonishing degree, by popular consent, is that the Great Desert is relieved by some very remarkable mountain groups, chief of which are Aïr, Ahaggar, and Tibesti—each in extent as large as the whole of England, and towering majestically to altitudes of 6,000 to 10,000 feet.

They are mountains that are lost to the world; full of mystical silence, like the rest of the Sahara, and bleak and wild, yet they are vast and rich in rugged grandeur; and the greys and browns of[61] their slopes are a feast to the eyes of traveller weary of scanning limitless plains of sand.

Aïr and Ahaggar I know well; Tibesti I have not visited. The former are, in general, alike, particularly in rocky bareness and eerie desolation; but, of the two, Aïr is the more picturesque and fascinating. Both, accentuated by their desert surroundings, stand out in strong, clear relief, aggressively bold and dominant—majestic in every line, amid unrestricted space of earth and sky.

“They are made up of range upon range of hills, sometimes with narrow sand-flats and river-beds between; massive hills of giant grey boulders, and others—not nearly so numerous—with rounded summits and a surface of apparent overlappings and downpourings of smooth loose reddish and grey fragments, as if the peaks were of volcanic origin, though no craters are there. But it is the formation of the many hills of giant boulders that make these mountains so astonishing, so rugged, and so unique. You might be on the roughest sea-coast in the world, and not find scenes to surpass them in desolation and utter wildness. They are hills that appear, to the eye, as if a mighty energy underneath had, at some time, heaved and shouldered boulder upon boulder of colossal proportions into position, until large, wide-based, solid masses were raised into magnificent being. On the other hand, there are instances where hills appear as if the forces underneath had built their edifices badly, and in a manner not fit to withstand the ravages of Time; and those are places where part of the pile has apparently collapsed, and there remains[62] a bleak cliff face and the ruins of rocks at the foot.”[7]

The slopes and the bastions of the summits of those rugged, gravely picturesque mountains present a sentiment of the sadness that goes with great age; and their dark countenances are the very quintessence of patience. For all time they have stood as over-masters of the Great Desert. Proudly they overlook the far-flung wastes beneath them, where foot-hills die out among black, stony, boulder-strewn plains, and “lakes” of sand, relieved, here and there, by odd-shaped pill-box or church-like kopjes that stand as miniature guardians of the mountains behind them—beyond, right to the faint horizon, nothing but the great dead plains of the desert.

Ahaggar is not, as a whole, so rugged and picturesque as Aïr, though it has many similar summits, especially the bare, disintegrating hills of loose brown stone that are rounded and have no pronounced contour.

The highest point I reached in Ahaggar was 6,000 feet (near Tazeruk), and in Aïr 6,050 feet (Baguezan).

Ahaggar, on the whole, I consider less habitable than Aïr. At the time of my journey, in the months of March and April, the scattered acacias in wadis and mountain valleys were leafless from prolonged lack of rain, and many of them had been[63] completely ruined through natives lopping off all the main branches so as to feed their goats in extremity. Pasturage had completely given out in many places, and herds had left the region to seek grazing ground where life was possible. (Whole families of the Ehaggaran Tuaregs had at that time trekked 500 to 600 miles, to outlying wadis west of Aïr, to keep their flocks and camels alive on Alwat, a plant common to some regions, in sandy wadis and among Ergs.)

On the other hand, I noted that places of water—wells, and, particularly, oozing surface springs in river-beds, often salt and chemical bearing, were more numerous in Ahaggar than in Aïr, and where such conditions exist there is also more domestic, garden-plot cultivation, executed chiefly by Zakummeran and Imrad tribes, and not by the haughty nomadic Tuaregs.

As a whole, these mountains of the Sahara attract more rain than the desert, on the rare occasions when the rain condescends to fall from the sky. But that advantage is almost momentary, for, owing to the naked, growthless, and soilless slopes, and the quick fall of the intricate network of mountain brooks and river-courses, so soon as rain touches the bare hills it streams down, to be swept away out into estuaries on the desert that drink in water with a thirst that knows no quenching.

Nevertheless, a frugal benefit is left behind, for the passing of mountain torrents leaves some moisture in the river-banks, and pools in the best of[64] deep-gullied streams, and in a brief week green vegetation springs to life in thin lines in places, and grows quickly to maturity. And it is this that is the grazing supply of the year—whether browsed over then or in the long, dreary months that follow, when grass and plants, in scattered tussocks, lie hay-dry and uninviting, but are the best that the country has to offer.

I noted in Ahaggar that clouds were often in the sky; which I had not remarked in Aïr, or, for that matter, anywhere farther south, except at the season of rains (July-August) in the Western Sudan—rains which sometimes move northwards over parts of the Sahara. It may be that out-thrown influences of the northern hemisphere, despatched from the Mediterranean over the Atlas Mountains, reach southward to about the latitude of Ahaggar. Later on, when marching to the north of the Algerian Sahara, I noted in my diary the coolness of north winds, when they blew, and imagined I sensed a tang of the sea in my nostrils. (Born and reared by the sea, my senses are acutely tuned in that respect.)

In conclusion, the Sahara is, in entirety, a vast waste land in its interior; its greater area made up of broken, desolate plains; its features of relief extraordinary mountain-lands of rugged grandeur.

Throughout the whole decay appears insistent and sure, and the increase of sand incessant. It has been shown to be a land containing considerable rock surface, and wherever one goes much of[65] such country is disintegrating and crumbling away; thus forming more and more sand, which accumulates, at the whim of the prevailing wind, to bank up and choke out the plant life of the country. In places one may dig down at the roots of shrubs and plants that are dead and find that the old surface of the ground is a foot or so beneath that of to-day.

The accompanying diagram is an illustration of rock disintegration in the Sahara.

There is no tangible counteraction to these advances of decay, and it would seem that they are destined irrevocably to continue. But on this score the question of rainfall is intensely interesting, for should the elements ever be kind, and really good and consistent rains fall for two or three years in succession, the whole land would undoubtedly[66] revive its vegetation with astonishing speed. Perhaps such revivals have occurred in the past, and may occur again. But I fear that, at best, they can be but short-lived. Indeed, conditions at the present are the opposite, and the prospect is that they will so continue. One hears from the nomads of regions having no rain for three years, four years, and even seven years; while have I myself seen had dried out and dead, though natives declare that it never dies except when there are more than four rainless years.

The Sahara is not yet devoid of vegetation, but its poverty is advancing. To-day we find the old caravan roads across Africa unfrequented—the Cyrenaican-Kufra-Wadai road, the Tripoli-Bilma-Chad road, the Tunis-Tripoli-Ghat-Aïr-Kano road: all of great antiquity, and from time immemorial the trade routes across North Africa. These roads are still to be seen, ten to fifteen parallel paths, camel-width apart, with undiminished clearness, where they pass over stony ground, powdered down to clean-cut furrows by passage of countless feet. They are steeped in the romance and mystery of the Sahara. Over them have passed hard-won pilgrimages to Mecca, cavalcades of slaves fettered and limb-weary and fearful, and rich caravans of merchandise that reached their goal or were looted—a gamble that made or lost a fortune for the masters who sent them forth. To-day they are unused, and the commerce of the Sahara is dead. And this is comprehensible when[67] the poverty of the land is reviewed and the belief held that growing dearth of vegetation has made it well-nigh impossible for large caravans to live to-day on those roads.

The same melancholy decline is to be found among the people of the Sahara. Its population is scattered and thin, and some regions are uninhabited altogether. We can only approximately estimate the numbers in the interior, which I believe, from data collected, to be about 40,000. Say 200 to 600 in oases here and there at wide intervals; 5,000 in the Aïr region; 5,000 in Ahaggar, and 10,000 Tebu in Tibesti; roughly, about one human soul to every sixty square miles.

In Aïr, and Ahaggar, and, excepting Tibesti, throughout the scattered grazing-grounds of the Sahara the masters or range-holders are chiefly Tuaregs, who are a southern race of Berbers. It is not proposed to deal with their history here, and it will suffice to say that they are a white race, descended from some of the oldest European stocks, and that the love of fighting and adventure that is born in them is an inheritance from forefathers who made their wars historic.

At an early stage in this chapter I stated that to-day Aïr contained scores of deserted villages. They are illuminating as illustrative of the drastic extent of change and decay. They have completely died out.

And what of Agades, which is still alive? Its dwellings are half in ruins. It supports about[68] 2,000 inhabitants, and to-day its surroundings are drear beyond description. Yet it was once a great desert city, on a famous route across Africa of great antiquity, and is said to have once contained 50,000 inhabitants—more than the whole population of the Sahara’s interior to-day.

Verily, ever it comes back to me; the Sahara is a land of decay. To the traveller it holds its principal charm in its strange mystic beauty and wonderful vastness, and in the fact that it is a land of Allah, steeped in inherent sadness.

The Bilma Salt Caravan, the great Taralum of the Sahara: few have ever heard of it, or its fame. Yet in one part of Africa its journey is the event of the year, and the date of departure as important as a national fête in civilised lands.

Like a fleet of ships taking to the high seas to bring home riches, so this famous concourse of camels sets out over oceans of sand to bring south the salt supply of the year to many people dependent upon it.

The caravan’s “Port of Departure,” each year, is from harbouring foothills on the south-east side of the Aïr Mountains, and the great gathering takes place from all quarters of the land.

The harbour is well chosen, and the time of the year, for the caravan starts at the season when there is the best chance of water in the river-beds, and grazing for camels for a number of days.

Beyond the harbour, befitting a port, away to the east, lies open, stony “Reg” and, thence, the vast, empty desert.

It was into this harbour that, with the purpose of joining the Taralum, my caravan rode, on a[72] certain day in October; the camels, unhurried, picking their way over stones with habitual caution. We had been travelling for hours in country impressively forsaken, and still, and silent. But, with a shock, the whole atmosphere was suddenly changed and all sense of solitude dispelled.

We had ridden in upon a camp of astounding proportions and unique picturesqueness. Before us stood thousands of camels, not a hundred or two, which would have been amazing enough, but, literally, thousands; and the spectacle was one never to be forgotten.

Where the ruins of the old forsaken village of Tabello squat dolefully on the banks of the river-bed of that name, the great caravan had already congregated in part, and was still in process of expansion.

As far as eye could see camps were settled on the banks and on the sand of the river-bed—camps full of pack-saddles, water-skins, bundles of coarse hay-fodder and bundles of firewood; all in readiness for the long desert journey.

About the camps, among the camels, picturesque camel-men moved gracefully, or reclined upon the sand—athletic-looking men, of the long trails, familiar with their tasks, strong and resourceful, as befits men who live constantly out-of-doors.

Some were engaged in preparing a meal, but the greater number were working on such jobs as plaiting rope from palm-leaves for binding their camel-loads, strengthening pack-saddles that required[73] repair, mending sandals, and patching rents in cotton garbing—in fact, putting all the odd touches to their gear that go to perfect and complete outfits for a strenuous ordeal.

And, all the time, they talked with an unwonted air of excitement, passing round the latest and most sensational news of camp, and again and again going over the details and hazards of the journey ahead of them. In this keyed-up excitement there was something of the atmosphere of an army on the move that has an action impending.

They are chiefly Tuaregs from the northern regions of the Southern Sahara, and a scattering of Hausas from the territories farther south, while both have their quota of Buzus (slaves), who are men of many mixtures of breed and are appointed the most menial work in camp and on the road.

The whole concourse has gathered from far and wide to this appointed rendezvous: from Kano, Katsina, and Sokoto, in Northern Nigeria; from Gourè and Zinder and other towns in Damagarim, and from many quarters in Damergou and Aïr.

Upon inquiry I learned that between 4,000 and 5,000 camels had already arrived; truly a magnificent array of animals. And not only were their numbers great: they were the pick of the camels of the country, for it is recognised, by all who know the route, that only the finest are fit to live through the long, hard journey over the terrible wastes of sand, that are as a cruel expansive sea on the trackless way that lies between them and Bilma.

[74]We had camped on the fringe of the crowd, and thenceforth became a unit of it. Salutations acclaimed us on all sides. The Taralum is renowned for its meetings of long-lost friends who travel far afield. Hausas and Tuaregs stalked smilingly into camp whom I had met a year or two ago, or back on the trail on the present journey; while my camelmen found a whole host of friends whom they knew directly or indirectly “back home.” News of all kinds was gleaned, of the south and of the outer trails, and friendliness was in the air and everyone in high spirits.

After a night’s rest we settled down, like the others, to the immediate concerns of the journey ahead, and were kept busy knitting our gear to perfection of strength and compactness.

Like the others, also, we had to watch our camels alertly to keep them from straying and mixing with others while shifting for ourselves in the competition for the best of grazing.

To feed such an enormous caravan, even but for a brief day or two, is a tremendous consideration, and Tabello had been chosen for this very reason because it offered the best conditions to be found in a region where drear poverty of growth is the general rule.

Sharp-thorned acacias, shrubs, prickly ground plants, coarse grass tussocks—all make a camel’s meal; for they will tackle most things, and they eat heavily when the chance offers. The skill with which they strip the leaves from cruel-barbed[75] trees and plants is truly astonishing when one remembers that their lips and noses are soft as velvet and sensitive in the extreme.

Acacias are the chief trees at Tabello; low, insignificant, and far removed from the tall, leafy plants that one usually associates with the name. They are nowhere in forests, and grow in an irregular line along the dry river-bed banks, or in scattered, scraggy groups in hollows where they happen to have found a bare footing. There are a number of varieties, chief of which are: tashrar, tamat, and tigar—thorny, squat-branched, lean and small-leafed; yet all splendid camel food. Among them, particularly where bushes grow together, is aborer, a densely branched tree with long green thorns and sappy wood. A choice tree to the camel is agar, which seeks the solitudes and often grows alone in the open. It is a pale-coloured evergreen with thick twisting branches closely covered with tiny leaves. Then there is abisgee, which is not an acacia. It grows, willow-like, in clumps, and is very green, and has a pungent smell not unlike skunk. Camels eat it—and, as a consequence, smell foully—but only sparingly, unless no other food offers.

Underfoot, on the sand, in scanty patches, grow tussocks of coarse grass and prickly plants; among them tasmir, taruma, thelult, tatite, afazo, and alwat.[8] These plants were essential to the life of[76] the camp, for they meant food and contentment to the camels, whose huge numbers roamed the country-side, rapidly eating down whatever growth could be found within reach.

As to the food of the future: no camel had trekked into camp without a big load of dry, harsh tussock-grass on either side, gathered from the most favourable places en route: and those bales, which every animal will carry at the start, are the camel-food that must serve throughout the journey on the desert.

The departure for Bilma was delayed. On the day appointed to start news reached camp that a lot of Kel-Ferouan Tuaregs, on the way back from Hausaland, were not yet in. It was also known that there were some stragglers on the way. So that during the few days of camp-life that followed our arrival at Tabello others trekked in, as we had done, with their lines of fodder-loaded camels swelling the numbers, until 7,000 animals were the total on the eve of departure—a mighty cavalcade, and one of the largest caravans of modern times.

It represented, massed into one narrow area, the greater part of the wealth of a land that has no wealth if reckoned to the square mile of its vastness and general desolation. At a fair valuation each animal is worth £15 per head, making the total value of the Taralum £105,000.

Owing to this value, which, besides being monetary, represents the cream of the transport stock of the whole region, whose loss would be irreparable,[77] precautions to protect the caravan are taken, each year, by the French Administration of the Territoire du Niger.

Wherefore a force of Meharists had been sent from the south to join the Taralum at Tabello and act as an escort while crossing the desert. In addition, every native with the caravan is armed with weapons of war of some sort—rifle, sword, or lance; while some even carried the remarkable oryx-hide battle-shield that is peculiar to the Tuaregs. All are familiar with the danger of raids in the Sahara, and many have experienced them and fought before.

The date of departure of the Taralum is an event in the Sahara as notable as Christmas Day in civilised countries. It is fixed by tribes who know nothing of printed calendars, and the appointed date is: “Two days after the new moon Ganni Wazuwirin (the October-November moon). On this occasion, because of the delay already referred to, the great caravan started two days late.

On the 25th of October, at the first streak of dawn, the dark, gaunt forms of lines of camels, bulkily loaded with fodder, and food and water for a severe journey, could be just discerned at the mouth of a hill track, leading east out of Tabello river-bed.

In the dark comrade called to comrade in endeavour to find one another. There is a good deal of confusion; the Awe of Silence is absent.

The great cavalcade is saddled and ready to[78] march, and, but for the sound of voices, might well be taken for a stealthy army setting out on great enterprise. The huge massed groups of men and animals have all the significance of a powerful force on the move. And, like an army, it is unwieldy at the commencement.

There is a period of loitering. Some camps are late and their animals troublesome to load. Some men inquire the plan of march, and that is explained to them. While yet others say good-bye to friends they are leaving behind.

Eventually a low exchange of queries and orders set the foremost camels off on the track, with others following as close behind as possible; like a mere trickle, at the beginning, running out from the black mass of a mighty flood along a tiny newly discovered channel of escape.

That first day, to each possessor of a line of camels, was a tale of fractious animals and broken loads. All first days out are the same, even if the animals have only been idle in camp for a brief spell. Trouble can only be prevented to some extent. And the secret, there, is to take care that the same saddle, and the same load, if possible, is never changed from the animal to which it is originally allocated, for until the same load has been carried regularly there is bound to be trouble from individuals. They are timid of anything new, and eye any odd-shaped or odd-coloured part of a load with uneasy suspicion. But the commonest[79] cause of trouble is from new loads that have been put up so that they fit uneasily and rub or jab the bearer; until the worried animal decides to get rid of it—which, with a buck and a plunge or two, is only a matter of a few moments. That ungodly act is disastrous enough, but it is doubled or trebled when the pranks of one involve the upset of the whole line in the neighbourhood.

The day moved slowly and halts were constant in one line of camels or another, while in the wake of the caravan lay a trail of rope-ends and saddle leavings. The type of country did not help matters, for it was reg of stone and rocks; rough on the camels’ feet, and uneven in contour.

Nevertheless, the Taralum travelled painstakingly for fourteen hours, and, after dark, reached the end of the rough reg country to camp on the edge of a vast ocean of sand, that held, somewhere in its bosom, the salt-giving oases of Fachi and Bilma—the latter the goal of the caravan.

Like everyone else, I was tired, yet the sounds and scenes of that first camping of the Taralum were so astonishing that I almost forgot my fatigue.

Camels being off-loaded are noisy at any time, but tired camels seem to believe in letting everyone within hearing know that they have a cause for complaint. The twenty to thirty of one’s own line can make noise enough. But add to that the clamourings and complaints of thousands, and then try to imagine something of the astonishing uproar[80] that resounded through the encampment of the Taralum.

Nor was the commotion all over in a little. It kept on almost until midnight, while, like a great cable being drawn slowly in, the huge caravan rolled slowly forward to arrive length by length and find resting-place, band beside band, on the “floor” of the sheltered basin that had been chosen for the night.

The shallow valley, drear and dead when we arrived, was soon a vast arena of twinkling camp-fires, in area ever increasing as fresh arrivals came in. There were no trees or other hindrance to the vision, and the whole massed encampment lay open to view. It made an impressive scene; impressive because of its size and singular wilderness character, and because of its romantic mission. It comprised an army of nomads and animals on their first step of invasion, halted in an alcove below the dark rocks of the outland of Aïr, while beyond lay the ocean of sand, which on the morrow, and thereafter, held their adventure.

In my own band our camp was about as usual, for we were seasoned travellers long ere this. But we were all tired, since the day had been irksome and long. Wherefore we were soon in our blankets, resting but awake, because of the noise around us.

Our camels had been offered some of the coarse hay we carried, only to sniff at it disdainfully and refuse it. Whereupon my head camelman smiled and rebaled it, remarking in his own tongue:

[81]“Wait till this time to-morrow. They won’t be so particular when real hunger seizes them.”

The voyage of the Taralum, on the days that followed, was, in essentials, one long test of patience, perseverance, and endurance, in travelling a desert of terrifying desolation.

The Bilma Desert is desert at its worst; an absolute sea of sand, destitute of the minutest object. Nothing relieves the eye, not even a morsel of the insignificance of a branch-end to hint of vegetation; and there is no living creature whatever.

Day after day, endless leagues of level, wind-rippled sand are passed and lie ahead. The desolation holds monotonous intensity; barely relieved, even by the banks of dunes which are encountered in places, softly rounded like the swing of great waves rolling to the land on a calming ocean, and petrified in the act. When it is calm the sand rests. But that is seldom, for there are two forces that are constant in the desert: wind and sun. And when the wind blows the sands of the surface are never still, and legions of particles fly before its bidding.

But to the traveller the wind is his salvation, unless it rises to a gale and brings that terror of the desert—a sandstorm. Even though hot, with the breath of the glowing sand, the wind is a measure of counteraction to the oppression of the tremendous blazing heat of the overhead sun.

Beyond all else, the desert is the Kingdom of[82] the Sun. Of all lands where it rules, none know it in greater strength nor more pitiless mood than here. It subdues and kills; it has conquered the earth. It is antagonistic to everything that lives. It even glares on the caravans of the desert as a tyrant on foolish intruders that are prey to be destroyed. Day after day, almost without a break throughout the year, it rises, a globe of gold set in a halo, to rule through long monotonous hours, white in intensity, and ungilded when high in the sky, until the hour arrives for it to sink to rest: when it passes to another sphere followed by mutterings of relief from the tired lips of men who thank Allah that it has gone.

It was 200 miles from Tabello to Fachi, another 100 miles to Bilma; and the same distance on the return journey—600 miles in all. Fresh water for man and beast was to be obtained in the region only at these oases. By forced marches, Fachi, first in our path, was to be reached on the sixth day. All water-skins, the very life of the people of the caravan, would be empty by then, and the camels in sore need of slaking their thirst. It was no land to dally in. All sensed the danger of thirst and starvation, which was in the very sand of the desert about them. Wherefore the whole caravan pushed ever on with anxious earnestness, and with an invisible discipline peculiar to tribal traditions.

The Taralum travelled 38 to 40 miles per day: 14 to 18 hours of patient, steady plodding. There[83] was no halt to rest animals. They carried their burdens throughout the livelong day, with the men of the caravan riding on the top of the loads. The proportion of men was one to every 5 or 7 animals; in all, about 1,100 human lives.

In the open desert the Taralum made an astonishing array. The space that the 7,000 camels occupied on the march is almost past belief. From a situation in the centre of the caravan one viewed neither the head of the cavalcade nor the tail. So far as eye could see, out in front, or back in the rear, the marching army diminished until vanishing lines met the horizon, dark specks on the light sand, looking like mere swarms of flies on the carpet of the world.

The marvellous length of the caravan set me figuring. Individual lines controlled by one wisehead and two helpers, numbering fifteen to twenty camels. I measured five camels travelling in line, including the head-ropes by which each is attached to the camel in front, and found the distance to be fifty feet. This meant that if the whole caravan travelled as one single line it would extend over thirteen miles. However, in the wide, roadless expanse of the desert, they are in the habit of forming irregularly, and often bunch together in groups of four to six lines abreast, with a gap between each massed formation, or connected by a straggling line or two. Therefore, I estimated that the grouping into four or more lines abreast about levelled up on the gaps, and arrived at the conclusion[84] that the whole caravan travelled about as a double line, and was therefore six to seven miles in length.

But those are cold figures and, though it is hoped that they may convey some conception of the magnitude of the Taralum, they do not go further. To enter into the true spirit of the great onward-moving army one must grasp the atmosphere of an old-world pilgrimage, that surrounds the cavalcade. It is all as it might have been in the far-back pages of biblical history. And these nomads, who man the caravan, are descendants of peoples of historic antiquity, they retain the grace and the dress and the breeding of their forebears, they are primitively armed, they are primitively fearless, they are primitively mounted: and in their very primitiveness throughout they are a part of the past—while the forsaken world they travel is an age-old land of infinite mystery.

It may be fitting to describe here one of these war-able yet curiously religious nomads of the desert places whose military record goes back through many centuries, and who are to-day, although wholly unmodern, a select few of the finest travellers and camel-men in the world. I choose, because he is near at hand, Hamid of Timmersu. He is twenty-five years of age, tall, strong, and graceful. Like all true Tuaregs, he is coppery pale skinned,[9] not negroid black. But,[85] as he is heavily veiled, little of his features are seen. Were they revealed, however, they would be, like his hands and feet, clearly formed and delicate; almost refined. Of his face there is only a slit uncovered, through which his dark eyes gleam and rove. The veil, protecting his face from driving sand, and shading his eyes from the sun, is of swathes of light cotton webbing wrapped in many folds around the head. It is blue and much faded by the sun. Small growths of side-whiskers protrude secretively at the angles where the upper and lower swathes join near the ears in drawing to the back of the head. A tiny tassel of shiny plaited hair protrudes below the veil at the back of the neck; a detail of vanity. His gown is loose and flowing, and carried easily. Like his veil, it is blue, and much faded by the sun. It is relieved in front by a cluster of leather wallets, containing “The Blessings of Allah,” which hang from a black cord from the neck to the waist. A homespun blanket is flung, as a plaid, over his right shoulder and passes under the left armpit. It drops to his knees, for he is girded up for the work of the road,[10] and strong bare legs show below, with soiled travel-worn sandals protecting the soles of the feet. His arms are bare from the elbows, and a bundle of small leather charms hangs from a blackstone bangle above the elbow of the left arm; which is his working arm, for Hamid is a left-handed man. And for this reason, also, his leather-sheathed sword hangs[86] on his right side. Everything about him is carried with an easy, unconscious grace that is inherent in all—and Hamid of Timmersu is true to the type of Tuareg lineage.

The nights on the desert with the Taralum were memorable. Sunset, dusk, darkness; then an hour or two of patient, soft-footed plodding, one dark column following another, each trying to keep in touch with the next shadowy mass in front. These hours appeared doubly cool, after the malicious heat of day, except for occasional reminders of the heat that had passed that was borne to us in puffs of hot soft wind off sand that still simmered. With the passing of day, atmospheric lights of softest rainbow hues hung over the sands, changeful and momentary and unpossessible, briefly colouring everything in the land with a gentle Asiatic glow of arresting beauty, ere vanishing before the night. It is such moments of wonderful colouring that have given to all deserts their far-famed reputation for mystic beauty, and the more remote the region the greater the effect.

With the night come the stars, timidly at first, in the unclouded canopy, then in their thousands as the hours deepen. By name the natives know the planets and constellations and principal stars, and, like sailors at sea, use them as guides to check and direct their course.

Time moves on. Men sing a snatch of song in effort to liven drooping spirits, some chew a few hard dates to allay a gnawing hunger, while, in my[87] own line, we, like the others, covertly look ahead, anxious to catch the first lights of the leaders’ camp-fires, that will tell that at last the long, long day is done.

We mount a rise. We do not see it in the darkness, but we feel our camels ascending. We reach the crest, and, behold! the merriest, most welcome lights in all the world twinkle in the distance. Camp for the night is immediately ahead. All fatigue, for the moment, is over, every trial is forgotten in view of those beckoning lights.

Slowly the great caravan troops in; to camp as they arrive. With incredible swiftness all are busy at once, getting loads off, barracking camels, and lighting tiny fires with a few sticks from precious bundles of firewood. Hurriedly cooked, a meal of sorts is devoured ravenously.

Then the camels are attended to. They are viciously hungry. So hungry that many of them have been muzzled all day, with a net over their mouths to keep them from stealing from the loads en route. They have now to be fed, a little fodder at a time. It is dangerous to let them gulp down the coarse baled tussock-grass over-rapidly. But they can only have a limited ration from the supply, and that disappears almost as quickly as our own repast.

Then to sleep beneath the stars, dog-tired and dreamless, and utterly regardless of the din of incoming camels as the rear of the caravan continues to arrive in the encampment long into the depth of night.

[88]At three or four o’clock, on the morning that follows, feeling more dead than alive, and that we have hardly been asleep at all, we are forced to rise from our couches. Camels are roaring on all sides; the caravan is about to set out again. It is bitterly cold before dawn at this season, and all shiver in thin clothing. A fire is out of the question; we have only a bare supply of fuel. So we busy ourselves reloading and are off again well before daybreak.

Thus the long days, and short nights, passed, as the Taralum held on its steady course across the seas of desert.

Each individual throughout the caravan who had not made the journey to Bilma before was known as Rago (sheep); while, once the journey has been made, a man attains the distinction of the title, Sofo Aroki (Old Traveller).

Many had made the journey during previous years, yet to one man only was entrusted the right to guide, and his judgment was absolute law. No one questioned it, and, without chart or compass, or any mechanical aid whatever, he travelled unerringly to the goal. His name was Efali: a little old man, with remarkable, piercing eyes. He was famous as a traveller and as an old raider; but most famous of all as a guide in the desert. He held the life of the caravan in his hands, and his judgment of direction was uncanny in the exactitude with which he traversed the featureless wastes that each day lay before him like a vacant sea. It was only at rare intervals that anyone[89] in doubt became aware that he was travelling true. At such times, when we were no doubt travelling an old trail, minute signs that might escape the layman were noted by sharp eyes, such as a half-buried pellet of camel-dung, or a thread of frayed and crumbled rope, or a tiny piece of clothing-end. And those sometimes led to something much more tangible—the bleached bones of camels half buried in sand.

As illustrative of the exacting nature of this redoubtable voyage over the Bilma Desert, some account regarding the strain of it may be of interest.

The men of the Taralum undoubtedly rank among the ablest travellers and camel-men in the world, yet throughout the journey much weariness was remarked in the caravan. Men and camels tired badly; tired, too, in many cases, long before the end. The excessively long days, and the heat of a merciless sun, told their tale.

Truly it is the dominion of the sun, which is the most exhausting thing of all in an utterly pitiless land. Many men suffered terribly from constant sun-glare on eyes that could not endure the strain, which not only caused aches and pains, but also induced acute fatigue. Men so affected, after a time, cannot look upon the landscape without great effort, and one sees them sitting on their loads, with gowns drawn closely over their faces, while they doze and droop to the point of falling from their seats.

In due course the strange, diminutive, sand-blown[90] oasis of Fachi was reached, and a week later Bilma. And, when the harvest of salt-cones was bartered for and loaded, without delay the Taralum set out on the return journey; fearful of tarrying, even at the oases because of the poverty of food for camels or men. Indeed, the sand-surrounded oases were almost as appallingly barren as the desert around them, except for their groves of dates, which bore no fruit at that season of the year.

On the way back to Aïr, the prolonged strain told most heavily toward the end, partly from natural causes, and partly as a result of having subsisted overlong on scant nourishment. Indeed, so closely gauged were the food supplies of the Taralum that they began to give out before the end, even under the most rigid economy.

Men and animals weakened perceptibly. Of the former, nearly everyone limped when walking on foot, most of them suffering from numerous dry cracks that had opened cruelly in toes and soles of sandalled feet, through the extreme dryness of the atmosphere and the cutting friction of hot, bone-dry sand.

Even Efali, the fine old guide, had the appearance of a broken man in the end; limping, and stooping almost double, though, at the start, he had presented a trim, nimble figure remarkable for a man of his age.

Some camels died on the outward journey, but many more were lost on the way back. Those were individual losses, a few here and there in[91] almost every company, and the total loss in the Taralum was not recorded as a whole. But, on the third day before the end, it was common news that no fewer than forty camels had fallen out, unable to struggle on at the pace the caravan travelled. These were left behind in the tracks of the caravan, some at the point of death, others to take their chance of struggling through, unloaded, at their own gait.

After twenty-seven days on the desert the caravan drew near to the friendly foot-hills of Aïr, and, when the first dim outline could be discerned, it was akin to sighting land after a long voyage at sea.

To all, these distant hills were a vastly pleasant sight because of their relief from the monotony of sand, and doubly pleasant because they represented home.

Next day we were among them, and how peaceful they seemed, and restful to the eyes! One forgot their customary barrenness in an ecstasy of delight in their tangible solidity and sheltering slopes.

I caught myself at sundown listening dreamily, as if to some rare music, and awoke to the fact that it was only a cricket chirping a homily in the grass. Yet it was a volume of sweet sound after the silence of the great empty spaces.

On the 21st of November we recamped at Tabello, and after a day’s rest speedily dispersed our diverse ways.

[92]My last recollection is of Efali. I chanced to come upon him in camp enjoying a well-earned rest, and the luxury of shade, beneath a tree. He was through at last, with the strain of carrying the life of the Taralum in his hands. The old man struggled to his feet to come forward to shake hands, and, though every step gave him pain, the undaunted fire of a great traveller was in his eyes, and the spirit that knows no defeat in the big places of the world. With gladness we shook hands, and went our different ways.

In a land of overpowering solitude Fachi stands alone: a forlorn group of dwellings in a mighty wilderness of colourless sands. All around is absolute desert, vast and silent, and depressingly poverty-stricken. Not until far beyond its immediate ranges are outland borders situated, that finally interrupt the sway of the desert seas. To the east, 100 miles away, lies the Kowar Depression, and, farther on, Tibesti; to the west, 200 miles away, the mountainland of Aïr: to the south, some 300 miles, the desert merges into the bush of the French Sudan; while in the north it extends to the Fezzan.

The environment of Fachi might well terrify the stoutest. Moreover, the vast desert that surrounds it is an open highway for raiders, and others, who seek to pass across it, on secretive journeys, from one distant region to another.

Lost in a land of this kind, where few but raiders pass, without neighbours, without anyone to call to for help, one wonders, to begin with, how Fachi can exist. It shelters no more than a mere handful[96] of sedentary natives, about 150 to 200 human souls in all, yet this strangest of primitive dens stands unbroken, alone, as it has stood since its beginning, as a citadel of the desert.

Raiders who come and go are free to pass before Fachi at will, for, once clear of the desert’s borders, there is no living soul to stay them. And the natives of the town will tell you, with comprehensible pride, but with a hard light in their eyes, that evil-visaged men have sat down and looked upon Fachi from a distance, coveting its capture—in the end to rise and go their way, foiled by the fear of death in the traps of a wizards’ den.

In the modern history of Fachi, caravans visiting the oasis have been attacked outside its walls, where bleached human skulls still deck the sands; but only once has the town itself been threatened with destruction. That occurred fifteen years ago, when the raiders, said to number 1,500, forced a temporary entrance and fought through the western side of the town: the houses of which part still lie in ruins eloquent of the destruction of the fateful day.

It is obvious that to stand thus alone and live, self-reliant and self-dependent, Fachi must be strong—strong with an uncanny genius. And that that is so is soon revealed.

Its outer fortifications are the walls that enclose it—a double line of ramparts, with a broad moatlike ditch between. To-day the outer barrier is incomplete, for it is battered and broken in places[97] that have not been repaired, but the inner and principal wall is all that a powerful defence should be: high and grim and unscalable.

My feelings, when I first entered Fachi through its frowning walls, were of bewilderment and astonishment.

Through an open doorway, unpretentious from the outside, one passed down a few crumbling steps, and stood on the threshold of the town. Sense of protection from the outside world, with its blighting sun and sand-filled wind, was present at once, while an eerie gloominess already threatened; for the level of the town was almost cellar-depth below the land outside. Flung back against the thick exterior wall, rested the first grim evidence of defence: a heavy, palm-plank door riveted, primitively, and chained together, while a great beam and a stone set into the floor of the court within showed how it was closed and buttressed when need arose (I was soon to learn that every street, every dwelling entrance, every room within these dens, had doors of the same character of formidable strength). Over this portcullis type of entrance, which gave the only way of entry to the town, the white jaw-bones and skull of a camel are built into the wall, on the inside, for all the world like the crest of a gang of pirates.

But the strangest novelty, in those first moments, lay in the discovery that, on all sides, the walls were constructed with salt, blackened with dust and age, yet, surely, salt, set as hard as the finest[98] concrete and rasping as broken glass. It was not long before it dawned on me that the whole of the remarkable town was built of the same material.

The court, or area, inside the entrance, is small. But, passing on through a dark, shadowy, covered porchway, I soon learned that everywhere space was given away with niggardly economy.

Leaving the entrance, one enters a maze of alleys which represent the streets of the town: alleys that twist and turn in an amazing fashion, so that it is difficult to get an unobstructed view of more than a mere twenty or thirty feet of fairway. They are the narrowest slits of lanes, man-wide in places, but twice that width on an average; closely confined by black dwelling-high walls. Such sections of them as are fortunate enough to have a narrow overhead outlet to the sky are filled with shadows. Where roofed over they are dark and grim; mouse-ridden nooks, where man might lurk at any hour of the day who wished to cut an enemy’s throat.

Bare, earthy settees are recessed in places in these alleys where a foot or two of extra space permits an addition without entirely blocking up the pathway. There a single person may repose in the cool of evening; or sit cross-legged with another, exchanging idle gossip, or hatching cunning schemes.

Twisting and turning, portalled at points of advantage with a confusion of plank doors, these alleys lead an interminable distance. I find myself in the position of believing I am lost in a large city, and will never get back unguided to the point[99] of setting out. I have been a score of times in Fachi. On the last visit, as on the first, I found myself at dubious turnings, enquiring of furtive den-dwellers, “Which way leads to the blue sky outside?” Can one credit this of a place no greater in area than a country village? It seems hardly possible; yet it is so, and it is chiefly the closely knit network of lane-slits that leads to this erroneous impression of great size.

Nearly empty of people, the lanes are full of shadows and a sense of a thousand mysteries. Everywhere there are shadows: and on the day that I first entered Fachi I found myself repeating, under my breath: “It is a lost city, and its name should be, The City of Shadows.

Shadows, always shadows, meet one at every turn in ever-changing phase. Weird, attractive shapes when cast from parts where unskilled, unplotted building has found a happy architectural result, or frowning nooks where lurk the sentiments of witchery or ghosts of the wicked dead.

A few natives pass. They brush against me because of the narrowness of the lane. Close to them I see that their clothes are dirt soiled, their features hard and villainous. They hurry on and vanish out of the street with a single step aside. They have turned a corner or entered a dwelling.

All the dwellings are entered directly from the alleys. The burrowing for shelter is increased in the dwellings; their floors are farther under the ground than the dusty lanes. (They have nothing[100] to fear from rain and consequent flooding; for it does not rain.) A low, earthy parapet guards a few steps underground, and a tiny door, of hatchway size, through which only a stooping figure can pass. When there are no occupants at home, even during the day, these palm-plank, rudely anchored doors are closed and barred with the forbidding strength already described; as if neighbour trusted not neighbour.

But the issue that is vital to Fachi’s scheme of defence is in the fact that, from within, at a moment’s notice, the whole town can be barred and buttressed and placed under lock and key.

Packed like the skep of a hive, with intent to utilise space, Fachi is a regular honeycomb of crowded dens. They are salt-built, like the rest of the town, and as dark and shadowy and mysterious as the alleys outside. Each cell in the honeycomb has its narrow slit of a door, with a spy-hole, no larger than a halfpenny, drilled through the wall near the side of the jamb, so that folks may be peered at when approaching, or when arrived and knocking for admission.

Even by day nearly all the dwellings are locked and barred. When, perchance, a door stands ajar a feeble ray of light steals into a bare-walled, smoke-blackened den that has no more furnishing than a heap of dates on a mat and a skin of water hanging from the low ceiling. Once admittance has been gained from outside, it is seen that the interior of every home is comprised of den leading[101] to den, each with its thick plank door and its air of suspicion and secrecy. Before entering a single dwelling I had already realised that every yard of the lanes within Fachi could be defended almost single-handed, and that, should defenders happen to be driven back or killed at any one point, a fresh rally could be made with success at every gateway in their course. In the barred doors within the dens themselves I again thought of the cunning strategy from the point of view of hand-to-hand defensive fighting.

Seeking through a honeycomb of dens with curiosity thoroughly aroused, I eventually came out into daylight in a tiny courtyard in the centre. Thence an outside stairway mounted to the roofs. Climbing it, I viewed a panorama of the flat, parapeted housetops of Fachi. Beside me were attic store-rooms, locked and barred like so many of the chambers, and a confusion of jagged parapets, well-nigh impassable to anyone who might try to scale them. Weedy dates, old bones, broken earth-jars, all the odd refuse of primitive homes, lay scattered on these roofs; and I realised that the rubbish-heaps of Fachi’s den-dwelling people lay over the roofs of their burrows, and not in the alleys or in the dwellings. It was a condition of things that revealed the animal sense of people accustomed to stick closely to their warrens. These roofs, outside, were the nearest spaces to the open air; moreover the unsightly squalor seldom waxed fetid there owing to the baking sun and extreme[102] dryness of the atmosphere: a state of affairs that did not exist when old bones, or aught else outcast, lay fly-festering in the shade below.

I came out from investigating a honeycomb of dwellings with a back that ached with stooping through hatchway doors.

I had by this time, by promise of food, persuaded an ill-clad, hungry-looking individual to act as guide; one of the most villainous, indolent-looking men I have ever seen. I asked him to lead me to the fortress of the town, which I had seen from the outside, standing behind the double ramparts of the exterior, near to the remarkable “Seven Palms of Fachi,” which stand in a stately group close to the north front.

I am led through a maze of alleys. A heavy door, barring our path, is reached and unlatched, and a final lane lies before me. My guide vouchsafes the information that the fort is at the other end.

In a few moments we reach the rear courtyard of the fort, the largest open space in Fachi. It is uninteresting, for it is empty for the time being, and its high, unscalable walls seem stiffly posed like a petrified place awaiting the assembly of war-girded hordes.

We pass on inside—and I stand amazed. Before me is the den of the Forty Thieves, or a scene equivalent; but real, and not imaginary. The fort, with high, naked walls towering around it, looks like a[103] gigantic square-cut pit, with the bottom packed, almost to overflowing, with giant earthen jars. It is those jars that make the most amazing sight of all. Gleaming whitely, they fill the entire fort, except where the roofed-in, low, gloomy corridors jut out from the base of the main wall, giving access to the pit and to the four corner towers.

The fort might be compared to a vast, unused cupboard full of gigantic empty jam-pots—but jam-pots far above the most exaggerated dreams of the hungriest schoolboy. I started to count them, but gave it up. They looked, in their unevenly lined hundreds, as numerous and as disorderly as a flock of sheep.

Some were measured. The largest are 7 feet in diameter by 8 feet 4 inches high; the smallest 5 feet in diameter by 4 feet high. Though the sizes vary, they are all of one shape: giant jars tapering to a wide-mouthed neck at the top. They are constructed out of white chalky clay, knit with fibrous hairs of vegetation. Steps are moulded in the sides of all the larger jars, so that anyone may mount to gain entry at the top.

We had entered the final stronghold of Fachi; the last place of refuge in a city conceived, from end to end, with one great purpose—its strength of defence. And whoever may have been the wizard—for it is no haphazard work—he had the genius of a great man-at-arms. These giant urns, ready to be filled with dates and grain in time of siege, the deep well of water that is hidden in the centre[104] of them, are eloquent of their purpose; like all else in the war-prepared fastness.

Reluctantly I left this strange open-air hall to climb to one of the watch-towers. The way was perpendicular; up notched palm-poles, and niches cut in the hard salt walls; then, through loopholes, into each of the three turret rooms that made up its height. On reaching any lofty outlook with country around it one usually looks outward on the vast panorama of landscape that presents itself. My first impulse here, on stepping out on the tower roof, was different. I turned at once in toward the town to peer down into the haunting pit I had just left, where glistened whitely in the sun, the urns of “The Forty Thieves,” like a picture of another age.

And from that strange scene I slowly lifted my eyes in vain endeavour to learn where one single street in Fachi began and ended. Then I was lost in unstinted wonder at it all.

Native history—imparted to me by the Malam, or learned man, of Fachi—has it that in bygone times the people of the town had no cunning in war, and were terribly harassed by raids. Arab caravans, with rich merchandise from Algeria and Tripoli to Bornu and Wadai, in those days passed through Fachi, and the uncertain safety of the place was not to their liking or benefit. Wherefore, the story goes, there came a time when Arabs arrived on the heels of an attack, when the town had been hard hit, and much reduced in strength. It happened that a great Arab from Tripoli was[105] this caravan’s leader. He called the people of Fachi about him and said, in effect, according to the story, “Why is this? Enemy destroy you. You fear! You fly like the jackal into the desert to die!

“Bah! You have not sense! But Allah has sent us to your aid. We will show you how to build so that henceforth you shall fear no one.”

Whereupon they set about building a completely new city, not imperfectly, but under the strict supervision of the great Arab. It is said that if any part was imperfect it was ordered to be taken down and rebuilt.

“Fachi is built as it stands to-day, because a great Arab came from the north and taught our people sense.”

He could not name the great benefactor, nor could I find anyone who knew. But that he came from Tripoli all affirmed.

It is not impossible that he was one of the renowned Oulad Sliman tribe—Tripolitans who, in the past, migrated to settle near Mao, on the north of Lake Chad, to escape Turkish oppression.

I turned from contemplation of the town to look over the landscape. From the top of the tower it was not so barren as from below, for the green groves of date-palms were prominently in view. The oasis holds little more of value than a narrow belt of palms, the pits of salt, and a good supply of subterranean water. For the rest, nothing but[106] sand; the whole environment so unprepossessing that one cannot escape its terrible poverty.

And inside the town a population that has barely food to keep body and soul together.

“I suppose it is their native soil. They have lived here all their lives, like animals born in a cage, and they know no other world.”

Then I caught sight of my guide, whom I had forgotten, glued against the wall, peering, ever so cautiously, out of one of the tower loopholes, aiming with his fingers, as if he held a rifle. From head to foot, he looked a perfect brigand.

I followed the cue. Who knew the occupation of these people from one year’s end to the other? The brief halt of passing caravan told one nothing of that. Did raids go forth from those grim walls when hunger pressed, and all was quiet about them? It was more than likely. Certainly they possessed an unfettered freedom that gave outlet to that wildness of the wilderness that was in them, which ran, unknown to living soul outside their own little world, untamed and unchecked, through the shadowy alleys and dark dens within the walls, and, mayhap, found a fiercer outlet in evil-doing abroad.

The hard-featured natives of the town are Beri-Beri. They are strangely animal-like, in general,[107] perhaps because of their terrible environment, and their life is an underworld of vice.

He smiled at once, as if I had hit on a subject he knew something of, and that was much more pleasant than guiding a stranger through his town. Then he extended his left hand, and, with the other, slowly bent over each finger until they were all counted out. Whereupon he answered:

At the outset I called Fachi A City of Shadows, impelled by the original beauty and magic of its wealth of shadowy scenes. That title has grown fourfold. Beside aught that there is of beauty, and threatening it, there are never-ending shadows in its openness to danger from outside, sharp shadows in its periods of hunger, and uncanny shadows in the threat of evil that lies behind barred doors and in the visages of cold-eyed men.

Throughout the commercial history of civilised countries the digging out of riches from the bowels of the earth has for ever played an important part; and from among the minerals so obtained the currency of our world has always been minted. It is my purpose to suggest that in this there is clearly a resemblance between the civilised State and the primitive. But that which is mined by the one is sometimes vastly different from the wealth that is sought by the other. The gold of the Yukon, or the diamonds of Kimberley, are the highest ideals of civilised States; but possessions much more humble often suffice the primitive, and in the Sahara that which is sought by the indigenous tribes, and prized, as a necessity and as a currency, is humble salt of the earth.

It is possible that salt has been a medium of currency in the Sahara for all time. It was the Arabs, in the past, who brought the cowrie from the north coast of Africa to introduce it into the Sahara, and the rich countries farther south, as “money” to assist them in their trade; but the silver of the white man has displaced the cowrie[112] now, while salt, because of its tangible value, continues to be a ready medium of purchase. Therefore salt has outlived the cowrie, which, after all, had little more than an ornamental value.

In a few places, renowned to-day, and doubly renowned in the legendary history of the Sahara, there exist, in the remote interior, age-old salt-pits of inexhaustible supply. They are worked to-day as of old, and the methods of centuries are unchanged. But the trade is diminishing. The tide of the white man’s advance in Africa is having an influence on distant markets; and that influence is reflected at the remote source of supply. No longer do the great native populations of the Western Sudan depend chiefly on the Sahara for their salt, for to-day whole shiploads of the commercial commodity are imported by way of the west coast to vie with the supply of the renowned salt deposits of the Sahara, that were wont to supply half a continent.

But, despite the strength of the foreign invasion, there has always been a native prejudice against the imported salt and a liking for the natural salt of the Sahara—a prejudice that the importer has been fighting down ever since he entered the field—and it is no doubt that favourable prejudice, along with the existing value of salt as currency, has much to do with the continuance of a curious and primitive trade in the interior of the Sahara.

Like gold in other lands, the famed deposits of[113] salt in the Sahara are not numerous. I know of only three that are of great reputation: Bilma, Tigguida n’Tisem, and Taudeni. There are possibly others, in the great desert, of renown that has not reached me. The two former I have visited, and will endeavour to describe, while Taudeni, about 400 miles in the desert north of the Niger bend, contains the famous mines of rock-salt that, in being transported south through Timbuktu, gives to that world-famous town its chief trade.

I will deal first with Bilma. The oasis of that name lies in a basin in the midst of a great region of loose sand-dunes which offer extraordinary natural protection. No stranger may find his way into Bilma through those dunes unguided, and its position is so secretive, a tiny place in a hollow in one boundless sea of dunes, that its presence is absolutely unsuspected until one comes suddenly, with astonishment, right on top of it.

A long, lake-like stretch of bare sun-cracked flats of soda and salt, glaring fiercely white in the stifling sun, lie before the small town, which is at the south end, while at the other end, a mile or so distant, are the piled-up, uneven hills of the workings of the famous salt-pits. The town, and the French fort that is there, are sheltered to some extent by small groves of date-palms.

The French occupation of Bilma is unique in the territory. It is a far-flung outpost, and the fort stands alone like a Dreadnought in an unknown sea, far from recognised frontiers. That such a[114] fort has been established, and held, is eloquent acknowledgment of the value of the salt-pits and the strategic position that Bilma holds in checking the wanderings of the cut-throat raiders that seek to pass between Tibesti and Aïr, or from the Fezzan to the northern fringes of Hausaland.

Bilma was first occupied by the French in 1906, and the founding of a post so remote, and in the heart of enemies’ country, was filled with dangers and difficulties. To-day, over the door of the sturdy, earth-built post in Bilma, are the words Fort Dromard, and by reason of the name the fort has been made a lasting monument to Lieutenant Amédée Dromard, a soldier-pioneer who, single-handed with native soldiers, fought for the French flag’s erection in Bilma, defended its brave upstanding, and won—to die in completing his noble task.

The record of his career hangs on the walls, worthy of the best traditions of his country; indeed, a record of which any country might well be proud. In the concluding paragraphs one reads:

“He was wounded in fighting at Achegur (north-west of Bilma) on 1st July 1909, and died at Bilma on 5th September of the same year, after being carried for two weeks on the shoulders of his faithful native followers.”

[115]The whole depression of Kowar, stretching north and south from Jado to the Chad basin, in which the oasis of Bilma is situated, has a population of about 3,000 natives. About 700 of those are in Bilma; chiefly Beri-Beri, and a certain number of Tebu. But absolute purity of race is dying out owing to much intermingling of the two races. Like the den-dwellers of Fachi, these natives are hard-featured, cold-eyed, and barbarous.

Of other small oases along the line of the Kowar depression, Dirku has a few families of Beri-Beri and the remainder are occupied by Tebu. But here, as elsewhere in the Sahara, the natives are declining in numbers and most of the outlying places are almost deserted; among them the once important centre of Jado, which is completely abandoned.

“The first people of Kowar were Sos (giants) from the Fezzan. Legend declares they were a very big race, while it is still claimed by the natives that the skeletons of these giants, and the great houses where they lived, are even yet to be seen in the Fezzan near Tedjerri. These giants were tall as twenty elbows.

“In due course the Sultan of the Beri-Beri came to Bilma and asked the Sultan of the Sos for permission to settle there with his people. Where upon the giant King, answering nothing, took a wand and, extending it, turned slowly round so that he formed a mighty circle, the edge of which[116] extended to Yeggeba, in northern Kowar, and to Dibbela in the south (a diameter of 100 miles or more); and within that area the Beri-Beri were permitted to live.

“The Sos were at that time settled in the oasis in the valley of Bilma, the rainfall of which was coming from Jado, and going to Fachi and Termitt.”[11]

“In 800 A.D. there was a great invasion of Beri-Beri, who were Moslems. They came from Yemen in Arabia by way of the Fezzan and Kowar, and continued to the country of Mao (Lake Chad territory) leaving in their passage some people who thought the country of Bilma attractive and suitable to settle in.

“Furthermore all oases[12] between Bilma and Chad were colonised by Beri-Beri. Some of them were already occupied, but the inhabitants were ejected by the Beri-Beri. The original people were a tribe named Koiam and representatives of the race are still to be found in Bornu.

“When the Tebu came to the region they found the Beri-Beri had already been in occupation of Kowar for a long time. The first Tebu came from Termitt, and it is claimed that the tribe originated from lawless people who had committed murder[117] in their own countries to the south, and were obliged to flee and become outlaws. Later in their history, when the Tebu were an established race in Tibesti, the first of the tribe to discover Kowar chanced across it by accident when in pursuit of strayed camels. This adventurer found the country promising to live in, and returned to Tibesti with the news. As a consequence of this discovery a number of Tebu crossed to Kowar with their families to settle.

“In this way Achinuma, Arrighi, Tiggumama, Gassar, and Chimmidur were founded.

“In time the Tebu grew in strength and gained supremacy over the Beri-Beri, who became subject to them.

“Later on the Tuaregs of Aïr came to Bilma and Fachi, and took them over as colonies, exacting tax, which for a long time was paid to the Sultan of Agades. But the Tuaregs never occupied the country.”

The three oldest towns in Kowar are: Bilma, Dirku, and Gadzebi. Of these Bilma is by far the most important because of its prolific salt-pits.

As a place of outstanding fame in the Sahara it is naturally rich in local history. At various periods the town has occupied three different situations. The site of the oldest town, known to the natives as Balabili, is about a quarter of a mile south of the Bilma of the present. It is a grave ground, with a gruesome history, for it was almost completely annihilated, at a single blow, about 200 years ago, by Arabs who came from Wadai. The story of the tragedy, as told to me by the Chief of Bilma,[118] is that all the inhabitants had gathered to the mosque on a festal occasion of Mohammedan worship, when they were swooped upon and trapped by their remorseless enemies; and a frightful massacre ensued, from which few escaped. The tragic remains of that awful day are still there for all to see, and I have looked with pity and awe on ground that is thickly strewn with the sun-bleached bones of those who perished. Not a dwelling stands on the desolate site; only a corner of the fateful mosque remains, and that is slowly crumbling and vanishing—vanishing to join the dust of those who once worshipped within its walls.

In time another town, locally called Kalala, was established, farther north, beside the salt-pits. Like Fachi, this was built of salt, and the roofless ruins of the old hutments are still standing. The old Chief of Bilma informed me that it was completely abandoned forty-seven years ago, owing to its being constantly attacked by hostile caravans, who looted everything, and even carried off the women and children.

But gradually, notwithstanding the loss from such disturbances, the present town had grown into being, fortified for defence, and possessing a fort; to which the people of Kalala were in the habit of fleeing to take refuge in time of raids. Comprehending, in this way, the greater safety that the new town offered, harassed Kalala was eventually abandoned, and everyone moved to settle in the quarter that is the Bilma of to-day.

[119]That is something of the history of the famous salt oasis. And the past and the present would seem to have resemblance, for the existing town is decaying. It is already half in ruins, and, moreover, has the woebegone appearance of a place that has lost its spirit—the spirit of the wild in wilderness, that fights to live against any odds; the spirit to endure in the most desolate and unknown places of the earth; the spirit that is found in Fachi.

Nevertheless, the far-famed prolific salt-pits of Bilma remain remarkable. Their crowded hills of cast-up salt debris resemble the outworks of a great minehead, and no one knows how long they have been in existence down through the centuries of time. Their antiquity is acknowledged by all.

The area of ground covered by the mounds of the workings is very extensive, but by far the larger number of pits are idle or old, and just an odd one, here and there, is in use.

The salt is secured from wide open bottoms that are of no great depth. It is in large pure crystals ranging from the size of sugar-grains to cubes as large as ¼-inch. When a pit is being worked the bottom of it is flooded with water of a rich dark claret colour, stained by the natron, or native carbonate of sodium [13] that is put in as a chemical that settles and separates the sandy sediment and other foreign matter from the desired crystals.[120] Bare-limbed men, in dirty ragged garb, work in this discoloured water up to their knees, and delve underneath with short-handled hoes to loosen the crystals, which they tread down with their naked feet to cleanse of sediment, before thrusting a shallow scoop below the surface, to bring it up piled with glistening salt. So rich is the deposit that quantity is rapidly secured. The wet salt is at once carried from the pit and mixed, with about an equal portion of dry salt, into a concrete-like consistency which is emptied into pyramid moulds, constructed for the purpose out of palm staves and bound with camel-hide. The whole process entails very little labour, and an abundance of cones of salt is produced with astonishing rapidity and ease.

The caravans that go to Bilma for salt secure it chiefly by barter, trading food and clothing to the value of their purchases. To gauge its actual value in coin, one block or cone of salt, weighing about 35 lbs., is worth two pennies in Bilma; but, when carried away south to Hausaland,[14] it is resold, or rebartered, at an entirely different value. At Tessawa it realises as much as eight shillings, or the equivalent, and at Kano ten shillings.

In considering values, however, the long period spent on the journey to and from Bilma, and the loss of camels through hunger and fatigue, should be reckoned in favour of the man who brings the[121] salt to the markets of the south, for on that account, when all is said and done, his profits at best are but little; which is all that the best type of native expects or asks.

Tigguida n’Tisem is very different from Bilma, though both are renowned salt centres, and both of a character that would have assuredly made them central figures in the history of the Sahara, had the races who have come and gone through the dark ages of Africa’s existence kept comprehensive records of their country.

This salt centre is not so remote as Bilma, and is easier of access from Hausaland. It lies west of Agades, and north of In-Gall, in black desert beyond the mountains of Aïr. Its actual position happens to be in a region wherein tend the main lines of drainage of the rare storm-rains of western Aïr; drainage that, at the present time, seeps eventually into the desert, but that, doubtless, once ran much further on its course, which heads, even to-day, in the direction of the Niger Basin. At Tigguida n’Tisem this watercourse, remarkable because of its size, takes the form of immense flats of clayey soil, resembling the sediment of an estuary, and the salt, which is the mainstay of the town, is located in a low hill in the very centre of this strange arid bottom. Indeed, on account of its position in the watercourse, when rains do happen to occur, which is, perhaps, once a year, or once in three years, according to chance, Tigguida n’Tisem is entirely surrounded by water, and at such times[122] the population are in the habit of trekking south to take refuge in In-Gall.

But for the most part the hot sun-smitten land lies ever barren and petrified, while the wind-swept, dust-covered, diminutive town crouches, like the dens of fearful creatures, in a lost land of featureless flatness and terrible desolation. Why anyone should live there at all is beyond comprehension, until one halts at the significant word, Salt! which constitutes the main occupation at present, though early geographers believed the settlement was concerned with copper.

Tigguida n’Tisem is very remarkable for two reasons: the rare race of people who occupy it, and its extremely picturesque salt-pans.

The whole locality is essentially Tuareg, and it is an astonishing fact that the natives of the town are not of that race, nor yet sedentary vassals of Beri-Beri, or Hausa slave caste from the south, who are invariably the workers of the Tuareg camps. They are known as Azawaren, and so completely separate are they in race that their language is unintelligible to the true natives of the region.

They are without written history, but the tribe was referred to by early geographers as a relic of the Sonrhay race, and, if that should come to be indisputably proved,[15] then at Tigguida n’Tisem, in the Sahara, the language of that once great Empire of the Niger still survives.

[123]There are about four hundred of the tribe within the walls of Tigguida, and they are entirely town people. None frequent the country-side, and they herd neither goats nor sheep.

They believe that the settlement was founded by an old priest of the tribe a very long time ago. They are very pious, and carry no arms whatever, and hence know nothing of warfare, despite their living in a disturbed and dangerous region. Their prayers, and their industrious work at the salt-pans, appear to be their only interests. Seeking for records of their origin, I tried to secure an old weapon or piece of metal-work or embroidery, but failed to find anything that hinted of art in the past or in the present. Undoubtedly their two outstanding characteristics are that they are hard and careful workers, and religious far beyond the ordinary.

On account of the latter trait, and the fact that they never resort to arms, the town is constantly raided, and only a few days before I arrived it was attacked by a band of some thirty robbers who had come from the Ghat-Murzuk region. No fight was made. The inhabitants simply hid in their huts until the raid, and its curse, had passed. Seven or eight people were killed and wounded, and thirty camels raided belonging to a caravan visiting the town for salt.

When I arrived the inhabitants climbed to the hut roofs to scrutinise my caravan’s approach across the low flats, excited and watchful, until[124] assured that the strange camels carried friends; for the shock of the recent raid was still fresh in their minds. But no other action revealed anything of the late disturbance, and for the most part the people were back at their salt-pans working calmly.

The town of Tigguida n’Tisem is small. The tiny mud huts of the people are closely crowded together for protection from sweeping winds and sand. It is not a walled town, nor, in any way, built for defence. The surroundings are almost entirely uninhabited; vast in extent, and bleak beyond description.

Neither in the buildings of the town nor in the faces of the people is there hint of anything remarkable. The attraction it possesses lies partly in the eerie environment, and in the mystery of unrecorded history, but chiefly in the salt-pits and the work of the people.

The town is barely fifty yards from the salt workings, which are not only unique but also extremely picturesque. They are made up of a series of very flat, pond-like spaces, connected to one another in an irregular chain by gate-wide necks. By reason of the excavations that have made the areas, they lie between high banks and cuttings of earth. The whole of the pond-like spaces, which constitute the floors of the workings, are on one level, and the amazing fact is that the whole place is one sea of closely crowded toilet-like basins, shaped with clay rims on the top of a level base.[125] They are the brine-pans of Tigguida n’Tisem, where salt is obtained by a natural process of evaporation. And, looked at from the high banks of the workings, they make a very remarkable picture in their network array of countless water-filled or salt-glistening circles, and method of neatness and plan; while graceful figures, busy at work among them, add to the extreme novelty and attractiveness of the scene.

These workings are even more unusual and more picturesque than Bilma, and they differ, also, in the fact that a great deal of labour is demanded in obtaining very modest quantities of salt.

The product is secreted in the soil and sand of the low hill. Well-like pools down in the workings among the salt basins, are the “mixing pots,” where the salt-bearing earth from the hill and water, already brackish, are mixed to make a fluid of strong brine. On close inspection it is found that the bottom of the workings is of solid rock, and the basins are formed thereon, to hold water securely, simply by moulding carefully plastered rims of clay to the circle desired. As each shallow basin dries out, and after the frigid salt sediment, or crust, has been collected, it is scrupulously cleaned with a hand-whisk and refilled with a skin-bucket or two of brine. The basin is then left undisturbed, beneath blue sky and blazing sun, for the day or two required for the water to completely evaporate.

And thus the people of Tigguida labour constantly[126] in these workings, which provide their sole means of livelihood. Whether puddling clay, carrying water, sweeping out basins, or collecting the salt crust, they are ever busy at one ploy or another; exhibiting a commendable diligence that is foreign to other people of the land.

From the workings the salt is carried to the dwellings in the town, where it is spread out to harden into flat oblong cakes of a size suitable to bale into compact camel loads. The cakes are of pale pink colour, and on account of this it is easily recognisable when seen south of the Sahara in the bazaars of the markets of West Africa, where it is prized on account of its high quality.

Its romance as currency begins at the very commencement of its existence as a product. Almost everything that the two towns secure from the outside, most of the food, and all of the clothes they require, is purchased by barter for salt.

Sometimes the exchanges are curious—a score of blocks of salt, at Bilma, for an article of adornment, or a lover’s gift; half a dozen blocks for a sheaf of raw tobacco, and a single block for a few sticks of scarce firewood.

At Tigguida n’Tisem all the water in the town is very salt. Hence fresh water is transported from a distance by donkeys and sold in the streets every day, a handful of raw salt being the purchase price of a half-filled calabash bowl of fresh water.

[127]From the time of leaving the salt-pits the career of each block, or slab, is one continual round of exchange, until they end in eventual consumption.

Although tribal customs are changing in the Western Sudan, there are still instances of local taxes being paid in salt; and builders and contractors; while raw materials, such as hides, ground-nuts, and other produce desired for export to Europe are often bartered for the same commodity. Nevertheless, it is as a native medium of exchange for little purchases that salt has its chief use as a currency at the present time.

Lastly, the nearest approach to dramatic entertainment that the West African native enjoys is furnished by curious Punch and Judy shows. And in the manner that one pays sixpence or a shilling to gain admittance, say, to a cinema, so the actors, or puppet manipulators, of “Punch and Judy” are often rewarded by small admirers with merely a “pinch of salt.”

The outstanding inhabitants of the Great Desert are “The People of the Veil”; a term by which the Tuaregs are generally known, and one that is employed by themselves, collectively, in the designation Kel-Tagilmus, which in their language has exactly the same meaning. It is they who, in widely scattered tribes of small numbers, dominate the Sahara and the sedentary serfs, they who are pre-eminently a class unto themselves, and they who are responsible for much of the romance that has given to the Sahara a world-wide mystical fame.

To appreciate their remarkable character it should be borne in mind that the Tuaregs are a southern race of Berbers, whose military history goes back through many centuries. Indeed, Berber armies twice invaded Europe: in the time of Hannibal, and when the Moors invaded Spain in 710 A.D. Since those early days of history they have ever been a warlike people, and in the unrest of the Riffs to-day, more than half of whom are Berbers, we have an example of the psychology of[132] recurrent forces of a dominant characteristic of the race.

This background is a great aid toward grasping and understanding the restless, drifting, veiled nomads of the Sahara to-day, who have to fend for themselves in an insecure wilderness that is sometimes aptly pronounced, “The Land of Dread,” and “The Land of the Sword.”

By the very fact of their ancestral inheritance, the Tuaregs are able clansmen in an appropriate sphere; and the wild fastnesses that make up their environment encourage every trait of feudal fitness to develop rather than recede. So that, when these circumstances are embraced and weighed in the scale of reasoning, it is not altogether surprising to find that they are, beyond all else, past-masters in cunning war-craft; and that there is no Tuareg, over the age of childhood, who is not fully versed in every detail of a subject that is their primary education. Consequently, whatever the conditions under which they are met, the Tuaregs are, in foremost characteristic, a people skilled and able in war, and every man a disciplined soldier when need arises. And though it is a fact that feuds and raids are on a whole growing less violent and numerous in the Sahara to-day, owing to the military activities of the French Administrations of Algiers and the Sudan, and the increasing poverty of the interior, the hereditary quality of the soldier in the Tuaregs is so ineradicable that one is always aware of their true character and[133] inclinations, no matter in what circumstance or environment they are encountered.

“He is a little old man; old in years, but young in activities and spirit. He has not the long, raking swing of the tireless footpad nor the graceful ease of bearing that belongs to the average man of his race. He walks with a short, perky step peculiarly his own.

“All his life has been spent in a camel-saddle, and only there can it be said that he is perfect and complete. Contrary to the standards of drama, his features are neither cruel nor repulsive. His Tuareg veil is worn low, and an open countenance and clear eyes of attractive largeness expand in a delightful smile when he greets you—if you are his friend.

“He is unpretentious; almost ridiculously shy. Yet you are aware that nothing escapes him. He has the eyes of an eagle. To anyone not aware of his calling, he gives the impression of being a fine old man with a kindly soul. Aware of his calling, you feel he has at heart the instinct of a sportsman, and that such instincts assuredly mitigated his wildest acts of lawlessness.

“Riding or walking, a double-edged sword hangs on his left side, and he carries a long shafted spear in his hand. He cannot count how many raids he has taken part in; the number is too great. His biggest success was the capture of three hundred camels and seventy women and children on one raid. His most memorable failure occurred when he had taken two hundred camels and fifty captives and was five days out on the desert on[134] his homeward journey when counter-attacked in the night by the people he had plundered and completely routed. His band scattered and had terrible difficulty in reaching their mountain stronghold in Aïr. Seven of his comrades were lost and died of exhaustion or thirst—‘Bah! It was not good!’

“These were big raids from fifty to one hundred men. Ordinary raids were composed of from fifteen to twenty men, armed with flint-lock firearms, and each robber was capable of rounding up, and taking care of, three to four camels apiece, when they swooped upon their victims. Captives were taken, in addition, and were sold to buy fresh arms and ammunition. A good, able-bodied male captive realised one hundred silver pieces, of coin the size of a sixpence, and a comely woman four hundred silver pieces, in the markets of Ghat and elsewhere. His days of raiding are over. He wishes he could recall them, and declares the life of adventure was a grand game, where prizes were many, in camels and captives.

“He stays a few days in our camp—then, of an evening, a little dark figure on a camel trails out alone into silent solitude until he is lost from view.

Another raider, with the ugly scar of a sword-slash on his left side, that sometimes showed in raising the arm, when the loose robes blew aside, told me the following story of his most exciting adventure:

“It occurred about thirty years ago. We had no rifles; only swords and spears. There were a[135] hundred men in our band, all mounted on camels. Some camels carried two men.

“Our camp was hungry, and we set out to plunder whatever chanced our way. We had no news of caravans when we started, and did not know what we might find.

“After crossing a wilderness of desert we came upon a small lot of camels, which we seized without fighting.

“But, by that time, some of the men were tired, discontented, and afraid, and tried to persuade all of us to give up and return to our own country. I would not agree; and, finally, we split; some going home while I led the others on.

“Later we crossed the tracks of a big caravan, and followed to spy on it. The caravan was a rich one. But we were afraid to attack it, for we could see that three of the men carried flint-lock rifles, and some of them were mounted on horses. It was the rifles we feared, for we knew they could deal death before we could reach our enemy, while we knew the horses would enable them to outpace our camels, and stand off so long as they willed if we attacked in open fight.

“But the temptation was great: and at last I planned that I would creep into their camp on the fringe of dawn while the others lay close on the outskirts.

“Allah was with me. I got in among the horses, undetected, and freed them. Then I set about stampeding the camp while my comrades rushed in upon it to enter in hand-to-hand conflict.

“But one of the men with a rifle got away on a bare-backed horse, and he came near creating a panic among us. However, luckily, most of his[136] ammunition was in his saddle-bag, and we soon discovered he could shoot no more.

“That was the end. It was an Arab caravan and we killed or captured all. There were 200 camels laden with cotton goods, tea, and sugar—a rich prize that long remained the topic of our camp-fires when we returned to our own country.”

Later I met one who knew some of the Arabs who were killed in that raid, which confirmed R———’s story.

Yet another of those strange men that I chanced across in my travels was Saidi Mousa—one of the leaders in the late Kaosen rebellion. He was a young man to be so noted, perhaps forty to forty-five years of age. But he had remarkably keen eyes, and a restless shiftiness that I did not altogether like.

I came on him in an oasis, under very curious guise, for he was trading as an ordinary native, and I induced him to find me some Arab cigarettes. I had little doubt that his presence in the town was with political intent, and that he was largely acting the part of a spy.

Throughout the years such raids have always gone on in the Sahara; while in quite recent times we have the remarkable rising of 1916, mustered and equipped in the Fezzan and led by Kaosen, which involved nearly all the Tuaregs of the Sahara, before their forces were turned on the fringes of the Western Sudan.

But there is one modern change: the rifle is[137] surely replacing the sword in combat. Do not be deceived in this. The sword is a part of the Tuareg’s national dress, and accordingly is ever present. But, though they may deem it wise to conceal their knowledge, and bury any arms they may possess, the Tuaregs have learned the value of the rifle in attack. Yet, unless you happen to be a proved friend, it is odds against them revealing anything of that, for they are ever suspicious of any human presence outside their own camp, even to dreading traitors among their neighbours; while they fear the laws of the white man that endeavour to prevent strength of arms. This attitude of cunning concealment is aptly expressed in one of their proverbs:

Although raids are fewer than in the past, it is nevertheless true of to-day that the danger of raids is a fear that everyone must experience in travelling the Sahara; and no one has that dread of unwarned attack more at heart than the Tuaregs themselves. Which is because they are experienced in the craft of their country, and well know the penalty if caught in the violence of an unexpected attack by forces stronger than themselves—and, in my opinion, it is always a force that is overpowering, in numbers or arms, that strikes at quarry comparatively easy of conquest, especially when caught off their guard, which is strategy they are skilled in.

During my travels in the Sahara I happened to[138] be intimately in touch with three raids. While between In-Azaoua and the Ahaggar Mountains, although blissfully ignorant until afterwards, when the tracks were discovered in the sand, my caravan was followed by raiders from the Fezzan, who sheered off without attacking when we reached the hills and the protection of the Ehaggaran Tuaregs. It transpired that the robbers had picked up and followed our tracks from the well of In-Azaoua, where we had taken water.

Timia [16] and Tigguida n’Tisem were both attacked and plundered just before I entered them, while Aouderas, when I camped there, was the scene of great excitement and expectancy of attack, when a raid, of which warning was out, attacked and burned Anai.

It is of interest that Timia was attacked when the pick of its able-bodied men were away south to Hausaland with their caravans, while Tigguida n’Tisem is entirely a town of religious people who know nothing of fighting, and made no defence whatever when the robbers attacked.

These raiders were fully armed with rifles. At Timia I picked up, on the day following the conflict, some lead-nosed Turkish ammunition and a full clasp of rimless ammunition, marked F.P.C.-08, such as is used in modern Italian rifles.

The most renowned robber chiefs in the Sahara during my travels were Chibikee, Fawna (the fugitive Chief of the Kel-Wai), Amud, and Alifa; and[139] each was a significant name of outlawry that had power to strike dread in the hearts of the bravest. Of these, Chibikee has died (1920), and Alifa, in 1923, had come to be the most notorious character in the land.

I have dwelt, to commence with, on this intimate atmosphere in the life of the Tuaregs because it has a powerful influence on the people. Fear of raids, or the doings of raiders, among themselves or of invaders from afar, is the perpetual topic of conversation in camp or with the caravans. All Tuaregs, first and foremost, are consequently ever suspicious of their environment, and this has bred a restless uneasiness that appears to see danger in everything and constant need for stealth and preparedness. This uncertain and harassing state of affairs has had its effect on a war-wise people. The inherited instincts of their Berber forebears remain: there is no growth of cowardice; but the conditions have developed a soldier-native of surpassing cunning and wily intrigue.

It is curious, too, how the nature of environment affects them. They are not all the same. Like wild creatures under the blue sky, they reflect the influences about them. The Tuareg who lives under the cover of the remote mountains of Aïr is wild and comparatively timid. He is often like a hunted creature that dreads to venture forth—he is aware of the strength of the rugged glens and caves, and the protection they offer. On the other[140] hand, the Tuareg of the Ergs, who of necessity lives in open seas of sand, is bold and daring, and, because of the lack of any place of refuge, takes the risk of raids every day of his adventurous life. As a consequence, he is a force to be reckoned with, and I have little doubt that from among such folk come the chief raiding bands of to-day.

Again, take the Tuaregs of the north; of Ahaggar, Ashgur, and the Fezzan, who are all much the same in character. The Ehaggaran, like the Tuaregs of Aïr, are largely a mountain-living people; yet they are decidedly bolder. In my opinion, this is explained in that peoples of the northern regions of the Sahara have ever been nearer to the civilisation of Europe, and the subsequent civilisation of the North African coastal regions. In journeys to the bazaars of such places as In-Salah, Ouargla, and Biskra, they have no doubt learned of the ways of a bold-living world, and have taken some of these teachings to heart. Moreover, they have known the moral support of the rifle longer; while they have the example of the Arabs behind them, not vastly distant, to encourage them in strength of a worldly character.

No doubt it is because of this very same influence of encroaching civilisation that I noted, in the passing, that the northern Tuaregs were not so alert in examining the tracks of strangers, nor yet so expert as camel-men as their neighbours farther in the interior.

Regarding their distribution, one may chance[141] across Tuaregs known by such tribal names as Ekaskazan, Efararen, Ehaggaran, Kel-Rada, Kel-Geras, Kel-Tedili, Kel-Wai, and many others; but those are simply names that imply the locality they belong to. For instance, Kel-Ferouan means “The people of Iferouan.”

A remarkable fact is that the Tuaregs of the Sahara are in widely separated groups, who hold strangely aloof from one another, instead of associating, as might naturally be expected of people of one race and one country. Some of the main tribal centres are: Timbuktu, Kidal, Aïr, Ahaggar, Ashgur, and the Fezzan. All have the same customs and manners, but vary considerably in dialect. There the connection ends, for each group is a power unto itself, and neighbours are looked upon as feudal enemies. They may fight among themselves over intrigues for local power or favoured pastures, but it is with everyone outside that traditional hostility exists.

And it is this state of affairs that has always led to ferment along the highways and byways of the Sahara, and opens the door to brigandage.

The Tuaregs exact homage from their serfs, and from the sedentary peoples of the Saharan Oases, who seldom dream of opposing them. They resemble haughty cavaliers who drift, on occasions, into the society of towns where they are strangers, and conduct themselves as such. They do their business and keep their counsels to themselves, and depart as abruptly as they came. Consequently[142] they have few friends, and are, at heart, hated by the townsfolk, who are well aware of their scornful demeanour toward all who work with their hands, which is, to some degree, expressed in a Tuareg proverb:

But, to-day, this attitude sometimes recoils upon them. Many of the Tuareg slaves are captives from Hausaland. These are so addressed, and have to be respectful to their masters. But when the Tuareg journeys south, say, to Kano, where he covets cotton gowns and trade, he finds himself completely out of his own sphere, and often treated as so much dirt. His mortification is complete when, in the busy streets, some bold Hausa native openly addresses him as slave, while he is powerless to refute the term, owing to the prejudice of alien surroundings.

But their true province is far removed from towns. Anywhere, where there is scattered grazing and water, one may expect to find the Tuareg nomad of the Sahara, provided that place is remote enough. His home is under the blue sky, and the tiny grass or tent-covered huts of his family are secreted far from the society of other people. Occasionally he may voyage to a trade centre, like a ship seeking a foreign port, to obtain food and clothing and luxuries for his tribe, and glean news of the world beyond his narrow confines; but essentially he is a creature of the wilderness.

Their encampments are usually widely scattered: half a dozen huts where the head of the family is[143] located, then a few other families, perhaps miles apart. It is the economic necessity to be within reach of grazing for their live-stock that causes this isolated method of camping. Sometimes food is so very scarce that a single family is the sole occupant of a wide area.

These nomadic camps are within reach of water, but, as a general rule, never beside it. That would be dangerous, for water is the calling point of strangers. Camped wide of water, the nomads have a chance to be warned if enemy should arrive in quest to slake their thirst. And this is a fine protective precaution, for the raiders must have water at some place or other during their secretive marches, and forewarning of their presence is often gained in this way; for, even if robbers get in at night to a well-head or water-hole, they cannot cover their tracks in the tell-tale sand.

Wherefore, enhancing the strategic position of people who desire to watch and yet not be seen, the dwarf hutments of the encampments are usually in some concealed place: a hollow, or valley, or hill cleft, under shelter of acacias, if such shade is available. Moreover, these places are chosen, if possible, with an eye to a line of retreat in event of an attack. Proximity to low, bouldered hills is favourite ground, or a string of dry river gullies, or, if nothing better offers, a low hollow among deep, billowed sand-dunes.

Grazing for their camels, and herds of goats, and short-haired, lop-eared sheep, never lasts long in[144] any one place, hence the nomad constantly shifts from one quarter to another. On occasions, owing to scarcity of vegetation, it is necessary to camp far out from water: a day, or a day and a half’s journey from the nearest point of supply. This means long treks to water for the herds, and a journey with camels at least once a week to fetch supplies in goat-skins for the pressing needs of camp. It is not uncommon to come upon one man, and, perhaps, two naked, athletic-looking, boys at a remote well-head in the open, alone on bare, sand-swept desert, with about eight to ten camels, employed on the task of filling goat-skins. Without surprise, they tell that they have eight, twelve, or fifteen hours’ journey before they will get back to their camp. In all likelihood they carry no food, and will not eat till they get home, unless one of the camels should chance to be a female with milk.

The frail, gipsy-like huts of the Tuaregs are usually domed to shape like exaggerated mole-heaps. A dozen slim poles and lighter laths cut from acacias or palm-leaf stems, bent over and laced to form a framework, some grass matting and tanned skins indiscriminately thrown over them, and tied down in rude patchwork disorder, compose their low-crouched, diminutive dwellings wherever they select to pitch them near a chosen patch of grazing. Furnishing consists of a branch-built couch, about 15 inches off the ground. It occupies nearly all the floor space, and upon this the whole family are accustomed to sit or sleep,[145] closely wedged together. In addition, there are a few equally primitive utensils, such as a couple of wooden mortar bowls and pestle-poles for crushing grains and herbs, some broken-edged calabash bowls and earthen jars and goat-skins, for holding food, milk, and water. But there end the main possessions of any nomad’s dwelling. The arms that defend them go abroad with the menfolk, or remain concealed. By their very humbleness these belongings have two qualifications that are commendable: they are easily moved from place to place; they are little to lose if abandoned in the panic of a raid.

In their desert environment the nomads live in a constant atmosphere of sand, and surely there is nothing with greater discomfiting qualities. The clearings before the doors are sand, loose and trodden by the tread of live-stock and playful children. Wind and feet send it ever moving, outdoors and indoors; and clothes, food, and liquids, no matter how carefully guarded, are contaminated with an in-seeking, almost invisible dustiness. It is sometimes said of a creature that it “lived close to the earth”—the Tuareg lives “close to the sand,” and knows no escape from it.

It is not always realised that strong winds are prevalent in the wide, unsheltered ranges of the Sahara, and that consequently sand-dust is ever in the air. This is particularly so in September in the Southern Sahara, when a steady season of winds, that rise almost to gales every night, sets in,[146] known in the Sudan as: Eskar Kaka, “The winds that dry the harvest.”

Considering the conditions under which they live, and the difficulties of toilet, the Tuaregs are wonderfully clean, far more clean than any gipsies in civilisation, though one must not turn aghast at infant children with fly-covered faces, pestered by house-flies that have an impudence beyond the common in their hungry search for any moisture. Flies are a pestilence in all Tuareg camps, attracted by the live-stock, and by the milk that is gathered from the herds; while, if there should be a ripening date-grove anywhere at hand, they simply swarm in dreadful millions to the sweetening fruit.

In dress, both men and women are accustomed to garb themselves neatly and ornamentally, and vanity is a very pronounced trait in their character. The loose, flowing gowns of the men are particularly appropriate to their easy, swinging, graceful carriage.

The Tuareg women take great care over the arranging of their soft black silken hair, which is set in place in various forms of design. No doubt this is because their hair is considered a feature of beauty by the men; and it is interesting to find primitive people holding to the refined belief that “A woman’s hair is her crowning glory,” while civilised countries go shingled and bobbed. A woman with long hair is looked upon as one who is richly endowed with the good things of nature, and is usually a belle among the men.

[147]As a whole they are a healthy race, aided by their constant life in the open air. But they are caught at a disadvantage when any year chances to send them rare bursts of heavy rain, for their frail shelters and belongings are poor protection then. In thin clothing, they are drenched through the day, whether in their huts or out of them, and shiver with cold and damp at night. As a consequence much Tenadee (malaria) follows; which causes a lot of mortality, particularly among the little children, and it is chiefly on this account that large families are seldom seen. It is a great pity that they have no white doctors, and know nothing of quinine. In fighting the fell malady they commonly use only one imperfect herb.

Regarding their food, milk is to the Tuareg what wheat is to civilised countries—the mainstay of the people. Goats’ milk, sheep’s milk, camels’ milk: all are consumed in large quantities. Without milk they would be unable to live in their poverty-ridden surroundings.

But, in addition, though more as luxuries, they eat meat, grain, dates, and herbs, when they can obtain them. If nothing better offers they will search the country-side, and eat such things as the grass seeds of Afasa, and the flowers and leaves of the tree they call Agar. They are not above eating a camel, if one should happen to die of sickness, provided they have been able to cut its throat as it expired, in accordance with the demands of their religion.

[148]But wheat, guinea corn and Gero, a smaller green-coloured millet, are the chief solids of their table. Those they obtain, when they can afford it, by barter, from the sedentary people of oases, or from the granaries of the Western Sudan.

Gero is alone carried on long journeys when water is scarce, since the nomad can eat it without cooking. It is often crushed and mixed in a goat-skin of water and consumed as a sort of mealy drink; which is nourishing, and an antidote to thirst. Guinea corn must be cooked, and is preferred when milk can be added. Wheat is usually rolled, and steamed, and, afterwards, left to simmer in dubious fats that are added. Wheat—Erid in Tamascheq—is grown solely in the oases of the Sahara. I obtained some of the grain, which, as an experiment, was planted in Lincolnshire, England. The result was negative, but curious. Its nature in the Sahara is to grow at an astonishing speed whenever it is planted, provided the soil is kept supplied with water. The moment it felt the heat of the sun in England it leapt up in the same manner as in Africa—far too rapidly; and it browned and died, with unfilled heads, while the English wheat that grew beside it was still undeveloped and green.

A curious antidote to constant diet of milk is tobacco, and most Tuaregs of the wilderness crave it for the purpose of chewing along with natron; particularly the womenfolk, and often have the fair sex, old and young, pestered the life out of me[149] for some of my precious pipe store, to be mightily pleased with even the smallest of portions.

They are a lean and hungry people in their remote camps, far removed from markets, and not above begging from a stranger, though there is often a pleasant courtesy of exchange in an unexpected rustic present, after a gift has been delivered. It is the loafer, or “ne’er-do-weel”—and the Tuareg tribes harbour these burdens to the community as well as all other countries—who is the shameless rascal in begging alms, particularly if he be somewhat aged. These are the individuals who make a purposeful visit to camp, soon to tell of a dire ailment and ask for medicine; then for sugar; then for tea to go with the sugar; then for millet to eat with the tea—until one has lost all good-nature and patience, and bids him go with disgust.

The White Stranger is, more or less, looked upon as fair game for the beggar, and for the artful salesman. I once had reason to inquire, when near Ideles, if any native remembered Geyr von Schweppenburg, who had made a zoological expedition to Ahaggar in 1914, and one individual recalled the event owing solely to the fact that “The white man gave a woman some needles, and paid 10 francs for a goat.”

As a race, the Tuaregs are grave and haughty, and stand aloof from everyone. Their bearing suggests the inheritance that is claimed for them, for it is fairly well established that they are a[150] white race akin to some of the oldest European stocks. Some can trace their descent back about 500 years, in the district they reside in to-day; but they have no written records, and all declare that they came originally from Mecca or Medina, which, as they are Moslems, is their general way of expressing that they came from the north, from a land beyond Africa.

I consider them to be of varying castes, when divided by widely separated regions, and am more attracted to the fine physiognomy of the Tuareg of the south, than to the heavier features of many of the Tuaregs of the north. Through mating with captive women or serfs, the blood is not always pure. All true Tuaregs should be fair-skinned; and many of them are almost white. Small feet, delicate hands, refined wrists and ankles, clean-cut facial features further betray their Semitic origin. All have splendid carriage, and they are born athletes. They are superb camel-men, and wonderful travellers, rich in instincts of direction, born to endurance, and used to eating and drinking as little as possible on the trail, when food and water mean life or death. They are seen at their best on the open road. In the camps they have little to do and grow lazy.

In spirit, when by themselves, they are care-free and moderately contented; nevertheless, there is a curious underlying sadness in their character, caught partly, perhaps, from the religion of the Koran, and partly from drear environment where existence,[151] of necessity, is eked out to the lowest ebb of fortune in a land that holds no kindness, and ever threatens the destruction of their race.

They know much of poverty, and the herds of camels, goats, and sheep are their sole possessions of value, outside their freedom—which is precious beyond all else.

“The Tuareg encampment is situated in a fork of the Tesselaman Wadi, among low, wintry-looking acacias. Monotonous ranges of pale sand, and odd tufts of bleached grass, is all else in view. A hot, sand-filled wind sweeps across the land, and the sting of the glowing sun sickens all that lives.

“The camp is not large; about ten families in all. Entering it, no one is in view. The stock are being tended far afield, and those who remain in camp are watching my movements in hiding. The sole occupant of the first hut is an old woman. I salute her in her own tongue and seek out the next, about half a mile away. Here a pie-dog is barking viciously, and two men turn up to await my approach.

“We meet and scrutinise one another, as men on their guard. Then we commence to talk, and soon my business is explained: I wish to find the nearest well to take water in the evening.

“Very shortly other Tuaregs arrive surreptitiously, with inquiry in the dark eyes that peer from behind mask-like veils. The news of a stranger has flown round the encampment, and that is summons enough.

“We move under the shade of an acacia, and sit[152] on the loose sand and chat. My camel-men do most of the talking, and I am aware that they progress toward friendship.

“In the hut, near by, there is a woman and two children. We have awakened them from their sleep in the heat of the day, and the children are inclined to hide and draw back like frightened animals. A panting goat, that is sick, is tied to the bed within. The rounded dome of the hut, and the society of human beings is a picture that is pleasant to wilderness-weary eyes, and we stay beside the camp for a while. A lad departs to find the herds, and bring in some fresh milk. I enjoy a deep draught, while my henchmen join the nomads in devouring a meal—all eating from the one dish with curious wooden spoons.

“In the evening I set out to the well, about three miles away. I hear the bleat of goats and sheep, and the strident cries of herdsfolk, and know the flocks are coming in from pasture.

“Great dependence is placed upon the ability of the animals to follow familiar sound, and each flock-shepherd, usually a woman and two or three naked or scanty-ragged boys and girls, repeat a strung-out, modulating call, peculiar to themselves alone, and answered and obeyed only by the animals of that particular family—which is a great aid in keeping them together, and from mixing with others, in fenceless pastures.

“The region is appallingly vast, and I am conscious of admiration for the strange people who roam abroad over those boundless sands that hold only occasional grazings that neighbour the ground in wasted paleness.

“Approaching the well, I see that flocks are being watered; gathered in from fenceless wastes[153] to slake their pressing thirst. They rest on the sand, waiting their turn to drink, while the slow process of drawing a bucketful of water at a time is laboured at by their owners. And all the while the insistent cries of weary, thirsty animals ring in the air.

“A few camels stand about, but the greatest number of animals are goats and short-haired sheep—perhaps 100 to 150 in all, with an ass or two on the flanks, dejectedly aloof.

“The well has a place-name, and water, and, for the time being, a handful of nomads who keep to no permanent place of dwelling—that is all that it, and like places in the desert, hold to-day to justify a name on the map of Africa. Which is little indeed, until visualised against the blank, overpowering background of wilderness.

“My last look round is upon dead sand that holds no drop of moisture, and upon bleached grass and leafless tree, unfed from living roots; while lean-ribbed herds voice their plea for water, and nomad families gather to sleep under the blue sky with no more home than that offered by the shelter of their frail, wind-swept hutments.

“To the nomadic Tuaregs the environment is natural, and they know no better. Above all else they love their freedom, and hate the roof of permanent dwelling.”

And they are tolerably happy, if left to themselves, notwithstanding the suppressed melancholy that is an inherent characteristic of the race. One must know them well before they will express their moods of infinite sadness that lead toward brooding over their harassed life and the decadence of race and power.

[154]If we, in Europe, with thoughts turned towards Africa, ever happen to view the new moon in May we can know that the people of Islam, in the remotest corners of the Sahara, have entered on the Thirty Days’ Fast of Rhamadan, when no one may eat before sunset; while on the first sight of the new moon of June it ends in the Feast of Bairam. That religious observation, strangely enough, is typical of the life of “The People of the Veil,” who throughout their walks of life have long associations with sadness and want, and intensified joy when they have the good fortune to reach a brief spell of plenty and peace of mind.

Be they soldiers of fortune, steel-girt travellers, or peacefully pastoral, the Sahara still remains theirs, despite the ravages of poverty and their dread of the encroachings of civilisation; and they share its mystery.

Rali was hard hit. The inscrutable reserve which was wont to give strength to his proud features had broken down.

A terrible thing had happened. In the night a powerful band of robbers from the north had swept through the camp of his tribe, and had captured and driven away many camels.

Only a month before the impoverished remnants of Rali’s band had moved south from the robber-molested mountains of Aïr to seek shelter and peace on the borders of bushland and desert in the territory of Damergou. But it had availed them nothing to seek to flee from the age-old oppression of a remorseless Destiny that pursued them.

Yet more had happened than met the eye, for Rali, chief of the band, was overwrought with grief, and this, of a man of his stamp, who had lived from boyhood in a wilderness of bandit warfare, and played with life as an easy hazard, surely told that the disaster of the night, terrible though it had been in general loss of property,[158] held yet a deeper blow, to him, than appeared on the surface. And it was so. For, after the raid, it had been discovered that the robbers had carried off Kahena, the pale-faced wife of Rali, his bride of a few months, and belle of the tribe. And, whereas, to plunder camels is fair enough fortune of war in the remote and disturbed territories of the Sahara, to steal a man’s wife is an unpardonable offence.

For the moment Rali was bewildered and dazed by the blow that had fallen upon him.

But not for long would defeat overwhelm his proud and sensitive spirit. Verily he would awake. Like a creature of the wild, stung to blood-red anger, the time would come when he would seek his enemies—and kill!

Months later, in a certain Tuareg camp on the edge of the desert, two men were engrossed in working out a sum upon the sand; in native fashion, marking out rows of double dots with imprint of the first two fingers of the right hand; then flicking out some portions of their handiwork when mutual consultation advised correction.

The men were Rali and his brother Yofa, and they were calculating the stages of a long journey. Their dark, hawk-like eyes, peering through the slit of their veils, glinted actively; and assuredly some great enterprise was afoot. At last the sums[159] on the sand were swept out by a stroke or two of the hand, and the men arose.

“We have met on the tenth day of the moon which is called Togaso,” said Rali. “If Allah is kind we shall reach the country of our enemies on the fourteenth day of the moon which is called Assum.”

For months Rali had waited with that patience and will that are gifted to his race. Now it was his turn to move the pawn of breathless import that should win or lose a mighty stake in the gamble of life. Now, surely, his opponents had grown unwary, forgetful of the danger of being followed, and vigilance relaxed in confidence of their security behind tracks that had grown dim upon the sand, or obliterated by kindly elements of Time. Not now would the robbers guess that Rali had followed those self-same tracks while they were yet fresh to the vision, and had read there the riddle of the sands as clearly as scholar might read parchment. For two days he had followed them; afterwards he had stored in his mind the acute observations by which he hoped he would ultimately run the robbers to earth. He knew the tribe the robbers belonged to; knew each camel of the band should he ever cross their tracks again: marvellous observation and memory that are second nature to the tribes of the desert places, reared by the wayside of drifting sand and shepherds of camels from childhood.

It was evening. The sun, which had blazed down on the hot sand all day with the heat of a[160] furnace fire, had dipped below the straight plain-edge of the horizon. For a fleeting moment the sand took on a ruddy glow, and, in the gracious, luminous light, even the soiled dress of the men and women of the bush-camp lost all shabbiness. Then the soft light died out, and it was almost night.

In the centre of the Tuareg encampment, of frail skin-covered gipsy shelters, three saddled camels were kneeling ready for a journey. Two awaited riders, the third was burdened with provisions; leather bags containing native food, and goatskins filled with precious water.

Presently Rali and Yofa, accompanied by a group of their friends, came up to the camels in readiness to depart. Both were fully armed with modern rifles and belts of ammunition. Solemnly the travellers bade good-bye to their comrades in camp. Then they swung easily into their saddles; and on the instant the camels felt touch of human hand they rose from the ground.

“Brothers, we depart,” cried Rali. “Tidings wing faster than the winds across the sands. See! we start south on the way to Kano, our tracks will lead in that direction and be lost. Hold fast our secret. Ere to-morrow we will turn about and speed north—and no stranger must know. In your salaams to the Rising Sun plead that Allah protect us. If life be spared we shall come back, bearing with us the beautiful Kahena, when the days are young in the moon which is called Germuda.”

[161]And the camels padded noiselessly off into the night: gaunt, moving objects that dwindled down to shadowy specks on the plain of sand—then disappeared.

The journey which Rali and Yofa set out upon, which they had reckoned would entail thirty-five days of incessant travel, held no great hardship for them. Their anxiety lay in the danger of it, the strain of constant watchfulness, the duty of following out to the end the elusive trail of the robbers, now old and faint and altogether blank in places.

“We have tracked the wild sheep of our mountains to their cool dark caves in the summits with only the pin-scrape of an odd hoof-slip on the hard rocks to guide us, and our fathers have followed the ill-fated caravans of our tribe when lost in the sandstorms of the desert until they have found the bleached bones and the resting-place of those who had perished. May the eyes of the vulture be given us, and the cunning of the jackal, so that we, in our great need, shall not fail.”

Thus spoke Rali, when they commenced to follow the trail of the robbers at the place where he had marked it months before, while it was yet fresh.

Slowly they tracked the trail onward, day after day, ever heading northward along the margins of wastes of sand that lay spell-bound in the grip of limitless silence.

One night they passed close under the great,[162] darkly frowning mass of Baguezan, a prominent range in Aïr; and two days later found them east of the mountains, seeking the tracks in the sand while the sun went down in golden splendour behind the rugged peaks of Timia.

Later on, vague signs in the sand told them that the robbers had altered their course, and they swung westward into the mountain-land through the wide plain that trends toward the great Agoras river-bed.

They were now in a forsaken land that had once been the stronghold of their race throughout the hey-day of their power—stricken, deserted, northern Aïr, no longer harbouring living soul, no longer prospering in any way whatever.

Village after village they passed of tiny huts built from the stones of the mountains, and all stood grave and silent as tombs of the dead.

“The legends our mothers have taught us tell that we come of a great race,” said Rali. “And truly it was so. But a curse has fallen upon us with such merciless weight that, in our depression, we have come to believe that our race shall die until none remain.”

“Yes, brother,” answered Yofa. “I fear thou speakest truth. There are many kinds of misfortune, as there are many kinds of peoples on the earth; little peoples and great peoples. The incomprehensible purpose of destiny may single out any one of them, or any group of them, at any[163] time if they trend toward ill-advised and unhealthy disguise of the soul, which has been bequeathed to them, and, mayhap, they shall fade like the leaves of the forest, until they die. Thus, sometimes, to halt an evil that has escaped beyond the shores of restraint, a great blight doth fall, that spreadeth broadcast in the land, since the victims, in their self-confident security, do not see that it is among them, nor seek a remedy, nor hear the words of wisdom of the far-seeing wizards. Allah is strong, and we but as pebbles on the sand. They are there for a purpose, as we are here; when the purpose is past, or unduly transgressed, we shall be overcome and laid low, as drifting sand doth smother those stones.

“But every failure and every shortcoming hath remedy, if we search diligently to find it. And seldom doth hard struggle to ward off disaster go unrewarded. Wherefore blame is upon us, for we, as a race, are no longer great of will; we idle by our herds, we drift like grass seeds to and fro upon the desert, and we take not firm root anywhere in the soil. Yea, verily, we are drifting, ever drifting wherever soft winds blow.”

In answer to these words, and in conclusion, Rali stretched out his hand to embrace the landscape of noble, strong-featured mountains that encompassed them, and exclaimed:

“They, the once dearly loved hills of our forefathers, more fortunate than we, are immovable to the influence of sunshine or storm. We may[164] falter in the conduct of our lives, and pass carelessly on; but they shall remain, for ever monuments to the land of our race, their purpose fulfilled, their infinite composure pointing calmness and resolution, yet offering neither reproof nor scorn upon the shortcomings of humanity.”

Thus spoke those grave Tuareg men, revealing the inherent melancholy of their race, and the remnants of nobility of character that spring forth like gleams of light on occasions of deep emotion, but quickly die out in the willy-nilly idling of careless, aimless lives. For in their camps the Tuaregs of to-day may be likened to the lizards on the stones by their hut-doors: creatures content to idle and bask in the sun, contemplative, perhaps, but making no great exertion to do aught but eat and sleep and exist at freedom in the languishing temperature of African climate.

Meantime, onward they journeyed, day after day; sometimes, night after night; sleuths with their eyes to the ground clinging to the slightest fragment of sign of the robbers’ old trail. No check, and they had many, could shake them from their purpose nor confuse their wonderful intelligence in tracking. Ever they held on, out into the wastes of sand, out into the Unknown, far beyond the limits of their territory. Whither they were going they knew not! That the faint tracks at their feet alone could ultimately answer.

[165]III

A band of Ehaggaran natives, engaged in tending to the grazing of their herds of goats and camels, were camped beneath the eastern slopes of the Ahaggar mountain-range near Tiririn, not vastly distant from Ghat, on the borders of the Fezzan.

In the cool of late afternoon the women were bestirring about the tasks of camp; voices floated softly into the great space of the surroundings; wood-smoke rose from freshly nourished camp-fires, untroubled by wind; and altogether the scene was pastoral and peaceful.

None would suspect that the camp sheltered bandits. Yet it is often thus that, mingled with the commonplace simplicity of rural atmosphere, gangs of robbers of the Sahara, when off the trail, live and protect themselves against discovery at the hands of unfriendly neighbours. Surrounded by peaceful occupation and circumspect behaviour, they live the routine life of their camps, their weapons of warfare carefully hidden, and all other traces of evil-doing; while they retreat behind a curtain of deceit, and cunning, and secrecy; in which they are past-masters. And, in this camp near Tiririn, behind the veil of placid scene, lay Kahena, the bride of Rali.

Among a group of congested hutments Kahena, her cotton shawl drawn closely about her features, was hidden in a dark chamber, free from bonds,[166] but hourly watched over by the women of the robber band so that she should not endeavour to escape; though escape in such a wilderness, should she be desperate enough to attempt it, could only spell death.

Poor child! no longer had she the proud bearing of belle of her tribe. Distress and fear in long enduring her terrible position had left little of youth’s freshness and vigour, and she had come near to collapse and absolute surrender, though to this hour unsubmissive and fiercely antagonistic to the advances of her captors.

But her plight, and everything sinister in the inner life of the camp was, for the time being, securely hidden behind the disarming atmosphere of natural peacefulness of the scene.

But, of a sudden, a deep hush fell—and men, reclining idly on the sand by the huts, rose hastily to their feet and gazed to the south. Two travellers were approaching—a rare occurrence from such a quarter. Bezzou, chief of the village, tall and strong and good to look upon, yet with evil glint in his eyes, felt for the dagger in his sash. Like all men with blood upon their hands, he had twinges of conscience, and for one fleeting moment he showed his character and suspicions. But soon it was seen that the travellers were unarmed, and that no caravan followed behind them; and all misgivings were allayed.

With weary gait the camels of the travellers drew near to camp, their riders, dust-covered and careless,[167] drooping forward over the high cross-heads of their saddles as if they dozed in excess of fatigue.

At the edge of the camp they ordered their camels to kneel, and wearily dismounted, to be greeted with the steely gaze of Bezzou and his men, which scrutiny they returned with equal rudeness and aloofness, as is the custom of the land when stranger meets stranger. After a few moments of eye-to-eye duel the travellers, without uttering a word, gave attention to their camels, removing the riding-saddles and the load, then hobbling the forefeet and turning them free to roll in the sand and search for grazing.

But, for all their travel-soiled, fatigued appearance, for all their seeming haughty indifference, those two men, little as it could be guessed, were, in reality, keyed up to the highest pitch of alertness—for the sleuths of the sand-trail had run their quarry to earth, and Rali and Yofa stood before their bitterest enemies—and well they knew their danger and need of courage.

In time Rali limped feebly forward and addressed himself to Bezzou in his own dialect:

“Chief of a strange people! to-night we would camp with thee! The seas of sand are wide between Kano and Tripoli, and voice of mankind is heard but seldom; and, sometimes, if he is heard, he is not a friend. See! I walk no longer like the gazelle. Six days ago we met foul robbers, who shot and chased us; but our camels are fleet of[168] foot—and so we are here! But my leg, which is wounded, paineth me. I would have water to bathe it, and water to quench the thirst that sits sorely upon us both. I am a merchant; I have gift of cloth for thee if thou wilt bid men to serve our little wants.”

Now Bezzou had noted, with greedy eyes, the bale of merchandise that they carried, and it served his wishes of the moment that the stranger should tarry in his camp. Hence he answered:

“Welcome, wizard of travel! thou hast set out upon a long journey, like unto our forefathers who were wont to go to Mecca to kneel at the feet of the Prophet. Water shall be brought to you speedily, and food, and, wish ye aught else, speak that wish and it shall be granted!”

This request filled Rali with gladness, for it gave him the opening he sought. He had followed the old robber tracks near to this camp, but, as yet, knew not for certain if he had reached the end of his search. He had but one sure way to confirm his suspicions: he must see some of the camels belonging to the tribe, for he could recognise the footprints of any beast of the robber band the moment he cast eyes on them. Therefore he replied:

“I have one pressing need, O great and generous Chief! and it would be a providence of Allah if it could be granted. The camel which carries our merchandise is taken with dire sickness of the flesh, where resteth the pack-saddle, and I would[169] fain purchase another, if camels thou hast for sale.”

To his request Bezzou answered: “I shall command that six beasts, fair to look upon, shall be brought before thee ere the sun setteth, and thou shalt choose from among them, provided thou shalt pay me in silver of the white men of Kano.”

“Verily, I shall pay thee in the silver of the white man,” agreed Rali, at the same moment catching a fleeting glint of covetousness in his benefactor’s eyes.

Whereupon they parted for a time, and Rali and Yofa drank deep of water, and sat down at a little distance from the camp, ostensibly to bathe the wound from which Rali suffered. But when the blood-stained rags which bound the limb were removed no wound was there. Rali could still walk or run with the freedom of the gazelle when need arose. But he replaced the discoloured rags, and groaned in seeming stiffness and as if in great pain.

Ere night camels were brought to Rali, so that he might purchase one. He was startled, almost to the extent of uttering an unwary exclamation, the moment he cast eyes upon them, for among them was one of the animals that had been stolen during the robber raid upon his tribe. However, he successfully suppressed all signs of recognition, and carefully inspected each animal in turn, bargaining over the price of them with the customary shrewdness expected of a merchant. To alleviate any lingering suspicion that might exist among the[170] tribe concerning him, Rali was careful to take most interest in his own stolen camel, and he discussed it as an animal born and reared in the neighbourhood and entirely strange to him. And in the end it was this beast that he chose to select to purchase.

Meantime his keen eyes had not been idle, and he noted that two of the other animals made footprints in the sand exactly as they had been made months before on the robber trail. No fragment of doubt remained. He had tracked the bandits to their den.

But where was Kahena? Was Bezzou the leader of the band, as well as chief of the tribe? For, if so, it might be he to whom she had been allotted, to be one of his wives or slave women. He must plan to gain access to Bezzou’s dwelling. This mentally decided, he said:

“O generous Chief! this camel I shall take from thine herd when I go forth, but this day I shall pay thee silver of the white men of Kano in token of good faith. Anon, when thou hast feasted of the evening meal, if it be well advised, I shall come to thy door with bag of silver and gift of cloth.”

And Bezzou answered, with greed in his eyes: “It is well, friend. Come, and thou shalt be welcomed.”

Wherefore, in due time, when the shades of night had fallen, Rali limped to the door of the encampment of Bezzou, and was admitted.

The chief and two old councillors awaited him.[171] They had been deep in evil plans, for Bezzou had already made up his mind that the harmless travellers, with their camels, and merchandise, and bags of silver, should never leave the camp alive.

Rali made his generous gift of cloth to the chief, and, from a bag concealed in the folds of his garment, counted out the dole of silver which was the price of the camel he had purchased, the while he discussed, in voice pitched more high than usual, the small incidents of the journey and the hardships which he and Yofa had experienced by the way. He was fencing to disarm suspicion, fencing for time; hopeful that Kahena was near—even that she might catch the sound of his voice. In vain, when unobserved, his keen eyes roved over the hut in search of a clue.

Presently a woman entered from the rear bringing some wood for the fire that smouldered between stones on the floor. She was an Ehaggaran native, and, beyond one brief glance at her, Rali appeared indifferent to her presence. Yet, if one could have guessed it, his downcast eyes missed nothing. But vain was his covert inspection; her person revealed no clue of Kahena’s immediate presence; and his heart sank within him as she retired from the hut, for he had hoped that it might be otherwise.

Conversation had lagged, and Rali had risen to depart to his rest, when, with the curiosity of her sex, the woman re-entered on pretext of mending the fire, in reality to hear the parting words that passed between the stranger and her people.[172] She was in the act of adding fuel to the fire, when Rali suddenly stumbled and emitted a smothered groan, as if from the pain of his wound.

“Brother! thou art unfit to travel further for the present,” exclaimed Bezzou, supporting him, and inwardly intent on his evil schemes. “Rest in this camp, where thou art welcome, until thou hast recovered.”

And, as he limped off to join Yofa in rest, Rali answered: “I thank thee, O great and generous Chief! Gladly will I stay here for a few days until this sickness of the evil one has passed.”

Once outside in the darkness, Rali’s features relaxed in strange grimace, half expressing satisfaction, yet shadowed with burning hatred. For what had happened, at the moment when he had appeared to be seized with pain, was that the woman, in the act of stretching out a thin arm from under cover of the folds of her shawl to nourish the fire, had exposed a metal bangle on her wrist that had once been the property of Kahena.

He joined Yofa at the edge of the encampment, and together they rolled themselves in their blankets and lay down side by side upon the sand. But not to sleep—for long they discussed the exciting incidents of the day and planned for the future in low whisperings.

Undoubtedly Kahena was in camp, or had been killed. If alive, how were they to effect her rescue and wreak revenge? for vengeance was almost as dear to them as the rescue of Kahena. There[173] were many men in this camp, and for the present they appeared to have no occupation which took them far afield during day or night.

At last Rali, who shrewdly suspected that, if he did not act quickly, Bezzou, in his greed, would frustrate him by some treachery, proposed a daring plan, and, after much discussion of its inner details, it was agreed upon.

So that it came to pass that in the night Yofa crept from his sleeping-place and, with saddle and money-bags of Rali, set out across the sand to trace the grazing camels, so that he should mount and ride away in the direction of Ghat with all speed.

The first faint light of dawn was in the sky when Rali, in accordance with prearranged plans, sat up upon his couch upon the sand and gave the alarm.

Groans and curses escaped from him; he grovelled on the ground and cast sand upon his head; he cried aloud to Allah—and men came running from their hut doors to look upon him in consternation.

Seizing a staff, he limped, as if in excessive pain from his wound, to the huts of Bezzou, crying: “Infidel! Thief! Traitor! I am a ruined man!”

Espying Bezzou, he fell upon the ground before him, exclaiming: “O generous one! Canst thou assist me? Great evil has fallen. In the night my trusted servant, thrice cursed son of the faithless, has stolen from this camp, as jackal stealeth,[174] bearing with him my bags of silver. Traitor! infamous traitor! and how am I to follow him, with this great sickness of limb upon me?”

Bezzou was alarmed, not on account of Rali’s distress, but because the coveted bags of silver had escaped from his grasp in a totally unexpected way. Sharply, without troubling to disguise his contempt of the supposed cripple, he gave orders to his men, and immediately shouts of haste and excitement stirred the camp to thorough wakefulness ere the full light of day was in the sky.

In no time camels were hurried in from grazing and a band of well-mounted men armed with rifles—which had appeared mysteriously from cunning places of hiding—streamed out of camp on the clear, fresh tracks of Yofa and urged their camels into a steady, ungainly run, while Bezzou alone stood aside and watched them go.

Meanwhile Rali lay upon his couch on the sand, fitfully groaning in pain and calling upon Allah to bring down curses on the head of the faithless one.

But, in time, general peacefulness settled on the camp as the morning advanced. One by one, the women departed in divers directions, driving their herds of goats before them to place of grazing, or set out to gather herbs or firewood.

In due course the hour had come for which Rali had planned and waited; and thereupon he rose slowly from his couch and limped painfully to the hutments of Bezzou.

[175]Once there, he begged shelter from the sun of the old woman who answered his summons. But no sooner had he set foot indoors than his pitiful demeanour underwent startling change and he sprang with agility upon the woman to seize her in powerful grasp and force her to the ground, where he speedily gagged and bound her securely.

Sound of the scuffle disturbed Bezzou, who had been sleeping in an inner chamber, and he was in the act of entering the room to inquire the cause of it when Rali was upon him like a whirlwind with naked knife in his hand. Whereupon ensued a terrible combat, as the two strong men locked in grasp of deadly intent, and panted and struggled and staggered with the excessive strength of bitter hatred.

But Rali had the advantage of having taken his enemy by surprise, and gradually he improved his hold, until, suddenly, with one great effort, he freed his hand from the grasp of his powerful opponent, and buried his knife deep in Bezzou’s heart.

And, as he looked up from his exertions, Kahena stood in the doorway of the inner chamber with eyes filled with tears yet sparkling with gladness.

“Rali!” she cried softly, “last night I heard your voice; to-day I knew you would come.”

“Quick, child! retire, seek some clothes of Bezzou’s women and change thy garb with all[176] speed and cover thy fair face well; the men of this camp, who have been enticed away in pursuit of Yofa, who came hither with me to seek thee, may return at any moment. Follow me outdoors when thou art disguised. I go to catch our camels.”

And, with parting glance of deep satisfaction upon the dead man who had sinned so deeply against him, Rali went forth from the hut, still calling, at intervals, his lamentations of misfortune so that no woman or child remaining in camp should suspect him of deceit.

Soon he had caught his camels, for Yofa had driven them near to camp before he had departed in the night. Slowly he brought them in and caused them to kneel under cover of a ruined hut so that he might saddle them unobserved. Then Kahena joined him, in strange clothes and carrying a bundle of wood, the very simplicity of her disguise making safe her passage through the camp.

But at last the services of disguise were unnecessary, and with bounding heart Rali lifted Kahena to her camel. A moment more, and they were speeding south.

About two hours later Rali halted the camels among some sand-dunes, while saddles were adjusted and they rested to partake of some dried dates which Rali produced from one of his leather saddlebags. He carried also a single skin of water, upon which they must depend for the next few days.

Before remounting Rali searched diligently in a sandy gully, then commenced to excavate; and[177] when he stood upright again he carried two rifles in his hands. This was where Yofa and he had buried their arms before entering the camp of the strangers. He then proceeded to extract cartridges from a belt beneath his garment and fully loaded the weapons ere he hung them by their slings to his saddle-head.

Two days went past of anxious, constant travel across ungiving desert. Then they reached the point where Rali had arranged that Yofa should rejoin him. But Yofa was not there, and Rali was much perturbed. “Faithful, courageous brother, who had deliberately undertaken to draw the whole hornet’s nest of robbers in chase of him; pray Allah no ill-merited fate had befallen him! Yet Yofa was tireless and skilled in travel, and his camel fleet of foot: why did he wait not here?”

Rali had grave misgivings that the worst had befallen his comrade. More serious thought still, if Yofa had been captured the robbers would have returned speedily to their camp, to discover his deceit and the flight of Kahena, and, at the moment, in all probability, they were following the incriminating tracks in the sand.

That night Rali dared not camp, and wearily but surely he picked his way in the dark, ever onward, ever nearer to the mountains of Aïr.

Another uneventful day passed, and then, terribly exhausted, in particular Kahena, at risk of being overtaken, they lay down at night to sleep, while[178] the hungry camels were hobbled and turned away to snatch what pickings they could find in plant-starved, ungenerous surroundings.

Next morning, as they hurried on southward, the northern ranges of Aïr loomed in sight, at first low and smoke-blue on the distant horizon; thereafter ever growing in dimensions and solidity as the interval lessened between the fugitives and the ancient land of their race, which offered a measure of protection.

Alas! just when hope of successful escape appeared to be materialising, Rali, who had always been casting anxious glance behind, saw at last that which he dreaded to see—a cloud of dust rising faintly on the horizon. But he said not a word of this discovery to Kahena, and thereafter gave all his attention to urging the camels onward.

But by noon he could deceive her no longer, for the small dust-cloud had grown larger and unmistakable, and eyes might almost discern the raiders that were overtaking them.

“Kahena! fair and delicate flower of the desert,” he said, “thou art fashioned to flourish in sunny nooks where peace doth reign and foul winds of strife pass by thee, but to-day thou art a thing uprooted and shalt need be brave and worthy of thy name; for look! the robbers are close upon us.” Whereupon Rali turned in his saddle and pointed to the growing dust-cloud.

“Pray, child,” he cried, “that Allah hinder them until we reach the mountains,” and he urged the[179] camels onward, sparing not the jaded animals in his need.

A race against time ensued—a tense, terrible race, nerve-trying, beast-killing.

Hours slipped past, bringing nearer the goal of the fugitives, and promise of nightfall, while the dust-cloud of the remorseless robbers gained in volume behind them. Gradually, the chase became so hot that hours gave place to precious minutes, and Kahena called aloud to Allah and cried in fear to Rali under the extremity of the wild, mad race to shelter.

But, at last, the harbouring hills were reached, and Allah be praised, ere the robbers came in full view, the darkness of night laid merciful cloak before the eyes of desperate men. For the moment they were safe.

But Rali realised that safety would be short-lived. He now knew that Yofa had failed before the prowess of the robbers, and was either captive or killed; and he felt that the net of his own fate was closely about him.

The words he had once spoken to Yofa came back to him with vivid clearness, and under his breath he repeated them: “A curse has fallen upon us. It is willed that the race shall die, until none remain.”

Casting aside such sad thoughts, he turned gently to Kahena, and brought her a small portion of water and dates and bade her eat and rest while he unsaddled the camels and turned them free for ever.

[180]Presently he gently woke Kahena, for the exhausted girl had quickly fallen asleep, and bade her follow him while he commenced, carefully and skilfully, to climb upward among the huge awkward boulders and rocks of the bare slopes of Tamgak.

Thus they laboured through the night, and when day dawned they were on the mountain summit in a strange land of rocky hills.

And there they hid in a cave among pitfalls of boulders, and Rali bade the exhausted Kahena sleep while he set all the food and water that remained to them by her side. Then he started back to the mountain edge so that he might reach a point of vantage from whence to spy upon the robbers by the light of day.

Presently he was in a position to look down upon the land beneath; and he espied the camels of the robbers feeding in the valley where his tracks in the sand had been lost among the rocks at the mountain base. By and by, he heard voices half-way up the mountain-side. Cautiously shifting his position, he made out five of the robber band, scattered in different directions, searching keenly for track of him. But the grave old mountain told not her secrets as the tell-tale sands of the plains, and for some time Rali watched the robbers search without success, and heard them exchange curses of bitter disappointment. Whereupon he returned softly to the cave that sheltered Kahena, and sat hidden in the black darkness of it with rifle upon his knee, knowing that in time the baulked desperadoes[181] would climb to the summit and persevere in their search.

Slowly the day passed, while Kahena slept heavily, and Rali watched—and no grim figure darkened the entrance of their hiding-place. Once footsteps had been heard to grate on the hard rocks outside, as someone searched among the dark recesses of the disordered maze of fallen boulders. But, after drawing perilously near, the dreaded sound had slowly receded and died out.

Late in the evening Rali ventured from hiding and found the mountain summit deserted, while in the valley beneath he saw the lights of the camp-fires of the robbers. Whereupon, weak though he now was from want of sleep and the prolonged strain of superhuman exertions, he set out anxiously to search for water so that he and Kahena might drink thereof and live.

Long into the night he searched, but in vain he went, with ever-increasing sinking of heart, from one barren channel to another, and found not that which he sought among those sun-parched hills of terrible poverty. In the end he wearily retraced his steps to the cave that sheltered Kahena.

But the wild wolves of Fate were now close upon him, inevitably bearing him down as he had foretold, and he returned from his fruitless search for water to find Kahena in the grip of raging fever.

Poor child! the terrible strain of the race for freedom had been too great: and ere the night was advanced she died in the arms of Rali. While he,[182] unaware of this final catastrophe, in merciful sleep of utter exhaustion, crouched beside the still maid of his love, from whence life had for ever flown.

And in the morning he woke not. For two tired spirits had sped on the perpetual winds which sweep to the uttermost corners of the land and catch up the fallen fragments of the universe to bear them hence.

Skeletons among the rocks, a few wasted fragments of clothing, a riddled water-skin; and the reminiscent words of a Tuareg companion, when I chanced upon the remains, set me to piece together the threads of this story.—Author.

The Tuareg nomads of the Sahara consider themselves the superiors of all who toil with their hands, and there is a wide distinction between nobleman and serf.

The nomads are the overlords of the land. It is they who saw to it in the past that the oases were kept supplied with labour to till the soil and reap the harvest, promote bazaars and build towns, on which they might draw heavily for dates and cereals and other rare luxuries of their table; exacted as tribute for playing the part of guardians, or bartered for in more creditable exchange. The Tuaregs were ever cavaliers and soldiers of fortune, who scorned manual labour as an indignity. Nevertheless, it was an economic convenience for their country to grow food where the land could give of it, and to this end they acquired their workmen.

Slave-raids to Hausaland, slave-caravans, slave-markets in the heart of the Sahara, were the common custom of the land up till quite recent times, and were the outcome of the need for labour in the oases, and in the camps of the overlords.

[186]The ideal society of the Tuareg is that which is without government of any kind, to permit that they may freely execute their turbulent authority unhindered, and exact homage at the point of the sword. But the old regime is passing; though the stock of the slave class remain, either as servants to their old masters or as sedentary tribes within themselves.

The active practice of slavery has ceased, though the frame of mind still persists. Boys and girls are still sold out of families, quietly, but there is no cruelty in the transaction, for the slave class of a Tuareg family are permitted the complete freedom of the household so long as they observe the laws of their position. As a rule, the serf has not a very brilliant mentality, and the lifelong habit of toil is not easily disturbed. They are accustomed to serve, and, indeed, so long as they are fed and have a place to sleep, they appear as content as those in their natural homes in Hausaland or elsewhere. Many of these serfs who are alive to-day, were in the first instance bought and sold in the market-place, or were direct captives of nomadic raids. Under the military regime of the French they are more or less free to go their way to-day; but they make no change. They remain in the families as before, assured of protection and livelihood that might not be theirs if they cast adrift.

It is on this slave class that all the hard work falls, whether in the Tuareg camps or in the centres[187] of cultivation or commercial enterprise; and all are accustomed to their nomad overlords.

The widely scattered places of sedentary occupation in the Sahara may take two forms: they may be oases in the midst of sandy desert, or they may be havens among the mountains.

The desert oasis has its planted belt of date palms and plentiful supply of water, usually drawn from wells, sometimes from springs in open ditches. Under the shade of the palms are the irrigated gardens, where constant labour, at the seasons of cultivation, is demanded to flood the soil and nurse the plants to maturity in surroundings that would give no life without artificial aid.

The gardens are sandy and small: a network of closely crowded allotments, each fenced with palm staves to hold in check the driving sand. By means of a regular system of irrigation channels the soil is fed with water at intervals each day; drawn to the surface by oxen, or by hand, at the expense of a good deal of patient labour. The consequent dampness and humidity breed malaria, which is, perhaps, a further reason for the importation of the negroid serf, who is, through hereditary environment, familiar with the destructive malady. Indeed, in this respect, at the time of rain it is common practice for many semi-nomadic masters to evacuate the oases altogether and roam far out into the more healthy desert, tending their flocks while leaving their serfs alone to look after the cultivation.

[188]The palms produce dates, which ripen in the autumn, and the gardens principally wheat, millet, tomatoes, and onions in sparing quantities. All the work of cultivation is done by hand.

The dwellings of the desert oases have the character of towns, not villages. In a sense that designation may appear overdrawn, insomuch that many oases are no larger than the tiniest of villages, but against that should be set an environment that is so appallingly blank that any society of dwellings takes on the glamour of urban life. The market-places have their bazaars and their movement of people, the sandy streets are tolerably well laid out, while the clay-built buildings are compact and complete, and sometimes ornamental.

But they are few and very widely scattered, and vary greatly in standard. Some are mere hovels, others towns in the full sense of the word; and these latter are chiefly in the Algerian Sahara near to Arab civilisation, though Bilma, Fachi, and like outstanding ports in the desert should on no account be overlooked.

The sedentary havens among mountains such as Ahaggar and parts of Aïr are different from the desert oases. They are in character villages, and the life is entirely rural, as a place is rural that herds flocks about its doors and lives, for the most part, in grass-covered hutments.

In Aïr in particular, and in some cases in Ahaggar, these permanent villages are occupied by Tuaregs who, having fallen on evil days and lost their[189] camels and means of getting about, have taken to semi-sedentary life with bitterness in their hearts. Those have their slave-people, who, besides doing all the manual work in camp, labour at cultivation, as in the oases, when water permits of cultivation. But such harvest as they gather is meagre indeed, and insufficient to serve the needs of the community, since there is little scope for cultivation in the narrow, stony valleys between the slopes of the mountains; and lack of water adds a further drawback. On that account, also, only a few date-palms are planted near such villages.

On the whole, there is poor encouragement to toil because of the adverse conditions, and prolonged spells of idleness have no doubt developed the spirit of laziness that is prevalent in all these places.

Tuaregs are the authoritative owners of the villages, and have a definite residence there; though every now and again a family or two, with their herds, wander away on the open trail for a time, giving expression to the restless spirit that hungers for the life of the untrammelled wilderness.

Whether desert oasis or mountain village, all go to make up a part of the social fabric of the Sahara, and the nomad camps the other part. Each depends on the other. The nomads rely on the sedentary people for markets for the goods transported by their caravans—foreign, or products of their camps—and for such foods as are the outcome of cultivation. On the other hand, the sedentary people look to the nomad to keep up[190] communication with the outer world, and guard them against enemies in time of dispute or war. It would be difficult for one to subsist without the other, so that there is logically a certain intimate relation between the nomad and “The Sons of Toil,” despite the proud bearing of the former, which has behind it something of the instincts of aloofness that are disposed to be characteristics of untamed creatures of the wild.

One fact emerges that is of more than ordinary interest in consideration of the social restlessness in civilised countries to-day. It is true, in effect, that any solidity of human existence that obtains in the Sahara, frail though it be, centres round these permanent places of production. Moreover, I believe that the whole future of the Sahara lies at their door, and that the entire land will ultimately survive or go under according to the efforts they put forth. The need to labour is clearly defined before the mighty forces of unstifled Nature. There is no alternative, except starvation and death, which is, after all, a primary, if primitive, law of Nature, age-old and irrefutable, though often overlooked. The object-lessons of this need industriously to struggle for existence are about us in every country-side, down the lanes or out in the fields, wherever living thing has dwelling and the ways of Nature are closely observed. So much is barren in the Sahara that the labour of man stands forth in all its merit; and, insignificant though the Great Desert is among the peopled[191] countries of the world, the little society it contains owes gratitude to the hands of toil that have made life to some extent possible.

In most cases the sedentary cultivators are of negroid origin, drawn largely, at one time or another, from the vast populations of the Western Sudan. Hausa and Beri-Beri blood predominate. In the Tuareg camps in the south they are known as Belas’ or Buzus’, in Kowar they hold to the race names of Beri-Beri and Tebu, in Ahaggar they are Imrads, and thence, northward, Haratin. All have the general features of the negro, and are dark-skinned.

They toil simply and live simply, and have a happier composure than the Tuareg, aided by a somewhat dull mentality that does not possess the activity that leads to fretfulness and brooding. About their dwellings they appear to see no shame, or drawback, in living in considerable squalor; and filthy hovels are not uncommon, with unclean occupants in ragged clothing.

Between seasons of harvest many of the sedentary people know severe poverty, sometimes famine, and at such times almost anything is eaten: even the hides of camels or goats are boiled down to a chewable substance, and the questionable soup consumed.

It is not generally realised that there are large stretches of the Sahara without fuel for fires.[17][192] Many oases suffer great inconvenience from dearth of the commodity, and fires to cook even a single meal a day are sometimes not procurable. Pieces of palm-stems often furnish the chief material, but are poor, dense-smoking fuel. However, anything that burns will do, and I have often known a dozen women and children hover about my caravan encampment with baskets to collect the droppings of the camels.

Like all else in the Sahara, the oases suffer a perpetual onslaught of sand, which fills their gardens, their streets, and their homes; often banking up like drifts of snow against the dwellings, or forming in eddies and pools where the sweep of the wind circles a bend. Outside some oases sand is banked in huge dunes, which have to be continually fought against by the inhabitants, or they would engulf all. The predominance of sand everywhere does not add to cleanliness.

One of the most pleasant experiences that one can have in the Sahara is to come suddenly, without any forewarning from the character of the country, upon a place of human habitation after long weeks in barren wastes. The joy of the society of mankind is great, and the chatter of people about their homes contains a quality of comfort that is akin to home.

The scattered oases in the Sahara are as ports to those who roam the highways of the ocean. And in that there is one startling revelation in the fact that, like most big harbours of civilisation, the chief oases have their underworld of vice and wickedness.[193] And this is entirely a custom of the Sahara; which, once again, points strongly to its resemblance to the sea, for I have never known like habits to prevail anywhere among the populated regions of the Sudan. Bilma, which is a notable port in the land, might be taken as an instance, since the reputation of the Oulad Nails, in the Northern Sahara, is already widely known.

We find there a powerful and openly recognised guild, with a chief woman at its head, known by the name Diarabba. It has been in existence so long as the Beri-Beri and Tebu natives of the oasis can remember. The cold-eyed, gaudily ornamented women of the Guild—and most of the women of Bilma belong to it—perform an extraordinary dance which is only crudely graceful, yet picturesque because of the peculiarly shaped, coloured plume-like palm-fans, which each dancer waves in rhythm with the tom-tom music. They dance in a line before the musicians, moving their feet in accurate time and swaying to right and to left. The dance waxes faster and faster, while the men of the caravans look on.

At last one of the musicians drops his drum and runs forward to seize one of the women, whom he lifts bodily in his arms, and carries to place on a rug on the sand, the while the others continue to dance. The “belle” that has been chosen remains still, crouched upon the ground, while, one by one, men in the crowd who court her favour go forward and place money or other gifts on her head.

[194]One shudders and turns away; the barbarism of the East is not dead—yet neither is religion nor quaint superstition. I walked outside the north walls of the town, seeking the pure open air. A solitary tomb loomed in my path. I inquired its history and was told:

“There a great Marabout died, and our fathers say that people passing the dead man’s grave saw green lights at night, and said: ‘There lies a man who is glad even in death’; and so they built a tomb over him.”

In the belief that the oases and the sedentary people are the mainspring of the Sahara’s system, it may be worth while to bear in mind the state of the people, in picturing any possibility of resuscitating the land, of which we hear projects from time to time. Prolonged immorality brings decadence in its wake, and extreme poverty can do likewise. I see in the oases to-day human life at a very low ebb; human life that has been allowed to go to rot, because, through the ages, the Sahara has had no strong friends to reach out a hand and lift it from “the Slough of Despond.”

If the oases could be rejuvenated it is possible to believe that, despite the awe-inspiring forces of Nature, great things might yet be accomplished in reviving the Sahara; for the oases were ever the keystones of the land.

But that is a vast undertaking to attempt, and[195] almost impossible of accomplishment. The low ebb is running fast, and the back eddies of the land are full of wreckage that slide toward oblivion in the end. Which is a clear illustration that, when the character of the people of a country weakens, so must that country suffer.

When mankind pack up their goods and chattels in dunnage bags and bits of boxes and take to the open road, the life that ensues is that of the nomad, whether the wanderings are from place to place within the bounds of civilisation or beyond recognised frontiers. In either case the quality of adventure is there to quicken the pulses; for the instinct to explore is in all of us, whether the field be far-flung or near at hand. And while it is true that, in minor walks, light-hearted travel may have little purpose in its conception beyond that of pleasure, particularly at the onset, there is nevertheless reason why the smallest of these nomadic propensities should be thoughtfully considered since there is a very tangible utility in them, insomuch that travel of any kind is disposed to enlarge one’s notion of the world as a whole, while, at the same time, it broadcasts the character of a race; which shall be judged of repute or disrepute, abroad, according to the conduct of those who, wittingly or unwittingly, carry the standard far afield.

These are small words, and may convey little or[200] nothing of a mighty subject that will, one day, surely be our tremendous concern. For the kingdom of mankind is rapidly enlarging; and the time has come when it is fast being realised that insular completeness is over-narrow to withstand the rising flood alone. Wherefore it is no longer sufficient for any individual or country to look upon the prospect from comfortable doorstep and cry: “All is well.” Rather should each of us desire to see beyond, and comprehend the composition of the comradeship of the world as a whole, and build therefrom the character that shall fit us to sit by the fireside of any race, knowing, in the end, that we are welcomed, and have laboured faithfully to play the part of broad-minded men.

And it is significant that, along the highways of the world, a vastly important part of the history of Races and Empires has been written, and not only may wise men build for strength within their abodes, but also along all paths that lead to them.

Wherefore the Open Road may lead toward a goal, and nomadic restlessness be more than mere inherent instinct.

However, to return to the subject of travel in the Sahara, we, as islanders, can clearly comprehend the vastness of the oceans, and the importance of the routes across them, and thereby understand the conditions that confront the inhabitants of the shores and in the “ports” of the Sahara who seek, at times, to find passage across the grim, silent wastes of the desert. But ocean and desert[201] to-day present diverse phases of travel. The one has all that modern science and civilisation can command to make travel easy, while the other remains unchanged from the darkest ages, and is wholly primitive.

It is with the latter that this narrative has to deal in endeavour to give a few impressions of camp-fires I have known in out-of-the-way places while moving through the land, living as a nomad, carrying trivial possessions by the aid of humble beasts of burden, and camping wherever chance befell when the sun swung into the western sky—a life where one experiences the rugged edge of existence and comes to be vastly content with little pleasures, since these occur but seldom.

One of the rarest occurrences in the Sahara is rain, and the nomads tell that they have known seven years and even ten years pass without any in some localities. Twice, on the trail, I have witnessed the coming of the greatest boon that the Sahara can know; on 3rd August 1920, and again on 13th July 1922. They were memorable occurrences, and one is herein described as an incident of outdoor life not readily forgotten.

We were camped for a few days on a small, rocky knoll on the bank of a dry, deep-channelled river-bed. For months past the heat of the desert had waxed greater and greater, until the weather had become unbearably stifling and oppressive. There[202] was no relief in the surroundings; a wasteland of sad colourings, made up of pale sand and occasional sun-bleached grass tufts. It was the kind of environment that drives men to madness if the mind is not occupied.

There was a subdued tenseness abroad; and almost a gesture of mute appeal, for in truth the whole land was overstrained and panting for relief—and rains were due, if they were to come this year.

For an evening or two heat lightning lit the eastern horizon, and a few distant clouds hung about. . . . And then the great gift of the gods was delivered.

The big storm descended with astonishing suddenness, one early afternoon, and in no time the clear blue sky and sun-flooded land became transformed into a dark inferno of raging elements.

Our first warning of impending events came from a huge, ominous cloud that rolled over the land from the south-west, like a low black column of bush-fire smoke. It was the vanguard dust-churnings of a mighty hurricane, and with something of consternation the frail encampment prepared to crouch before the onslaught. But we had barely time to bundle valued possessions under canvas, and run round tent-ropes to test their security, before a fierce gale, filled with stinging dust and sand, swooped hungrily upon camp. And then the battle raged. All hands struggled to keep the tents intact, orders were bawled that[203] went unheard, for they were torn at the point of utterance and ruthlessly tossed into the vortex of the storm. Lurid lightning flashed and thunder roared above our heads; followed by a hissing deluge of torrential rains. Still we battled with unruly ropes and canvas that buffeted in the gale like ship-sails fouled in a treacherous wind, while all were drenched to the skin, and water literally streamed from our thin clothing. Matches, maps, notes—everything that happened to be in my pockets—was drowned to clammy pulp.

Camp-fires hissed and spluttered, and were quickly quenched; and in no time the tranquil camp of half an hour ago was no more than a skeleton of bedraggled possessions and woebegone occupants.

Meanwhile the whole aspect of the country rapidly changed. Miniature streams began to form and gurgle all about us, and grew at an alarming pace. A low murmuring arose in the hills behind and drew nearer and nearer until we witnessed the remarkable sight of a foam-crested, rolling billow advancing down the hitherto empty river-bed. Like a sea-wave on a long, sandy beach it rolled on its way, except that there was no moment when it would break and subside. Impelled by the weight of water behind, it passed our camp hurrying southward, leaving a full river in its wake.

Soon the stream was breast-high; and already soaked beyond the caring, some of the natives, in high glee at the wonderful sight of flowing water, plunged into the stream for a frolic. In the mêlée,[204] Sakari, one of my followers, lost his fez and crossed to the opposite bank to try to recover it. The water was rising so rapidly that when he came to recross, about fifteen minutes later, the stream was a tumbling torrent that nothing could live in; and so he had to sit and shiver on the opposite bank, until the flood subsided some hours later.

At the time of this incident rivers of water were flowing on three sides of the knoll. Immediately to the west ran the true river; on the east, parallel to the river, a waterfall tumbled off a small plateau, and thereafter swung in a broad, shallow stream across our south front over the completely swamped-out picketing ground of our camels. And still the torrential rains kept on.

Then came a time when we grew actively alarmed for the safety of our camp and baggage, and anxiously stood watching the river rise till it threatened to overflow even the high, rocky banks. Slowly the water crept up and up, till part of the bank actually overflowed, and water flooded into the tent nearest the brink. With all haste it was dismantled and removed. A rise of a foot, and everything we possessed would be in the flood and swept away. Gravely we watched the issue. The head camel-man, Elatu, advised trying to move everything away at once along a narrow neck on the north side. It seemed too late for that, and we held on.

And these were the critical moments that saw the tide turn in our favour. For a tantalising[205] period the water appeared, to our anxious eyes, to pause and hold to the one mark—then slowly it was noticed to recede, uncertainly, then decidedly, until we breathed thankfully in relief. A memorable moment was past.

Whereupon there was a glorious uplifting of spirits, and sheer delight in the exhilarating new-found freshness of earth and sky, and wealth of bountiful rain.

Masters joked as they changed into dry clothing, camp-boys and camel-men sang their native songs and laughed, while they ran from place to place to marvel at the quantity of water.

“Great rain for our country,” declared the Tuaregs. “Soon our lean camels shall have plenty to eat: Allah be praised!”

And to look upon the flooded land and think that only some hours before we had dug in the river-bed, and dug in vain, in search of good water; that was almost like a far-off dream.

In the dusk, when enough firewood had been salvaged, camp-fires were kindled, and we sat around the golden glow of their friendly warmth to still the shiverings of unaccustomed dampness. And in the hearts of all there was a rich and unusual exuberance because of the rare events of the day that had gifted succour for the present to the Great Lone Land of Thirst.

[206]II

At another time the scene shifts from the abnormal back to the normal parched dryness, and I look out upon desert that is clothed in the character by which it is best known and recognised: an awe-inspiring, sun-mastered immensity of sand and stone; secret as eternity, and filled with the stillness and brooding melancholy of a place of the dead.

The moment happens to be one of uneasiness. There are shadows of storm aslant the trail, and we hasten the caravan forward. But only with temporary purpose, knowing full well that nothing can stay the unleashing of the pent-up furies of the elements that already whisper and cry in their eagerness to descend in one great avalanche of whirling madness.

The black columns of a sandstorm are approaching. For our puny caravan there is no escape. Distant at first, it draws within the range of minutes and moments; and then, swift as the flight of keen-winged birds, and swifter than the flames of a forest fire, the terrifying storm overtakes us.

At once there is faltering and trembling before the shock. Vain are shouts to urge the camels onward. One or two flop instantly to the ground, while others struggle to keep their balance. . . . In a moment more all have broken from the line to crowd in panic with backs to the seething, stinging sand. We have completely halted—the camels have mutinied; and no power on earth can induce them to move while the storm continues.

[207]We are caught in the sandstorm with a vengeance. There is no shelter whatever. Dazed, blinded men, working as in a shroud of dense smoke, grope for knot-ends and relieve the camels of their loads. These, banked as barricades, and the camels, are our only protection. But little they avail, for soon the encampment is literally buried.

We huddle together, blinded, spluttering and choking, not daring to speak or expose ourselves further to the awful blizzard. It is trial enough to sit still, for, whatever the covering of protection, fine dust penetrates to the inmost recesses to sting eyes and lips, already smarting and swollen, and fill our throats and nostrils.

Effort is absolutely futile, and we turn dormant as stones that wait the passing of time under unhappy exposure. Indeed, except for agitations beneath our coverings when pain becomes unbearable, we lie as in our graves. And all the while the sand-burdened blizzard seethed and boiled and rushed ever onward; darkening the day almost to night, and fogging the landscape so that eye could not see more than a yard within the haze.

Hour succeeded hour . . . and the day passed. . . . and there was no camp-fire, no food, and no happiness, for the wrath of Allah continued through the land.

III

Again, with rude storms past, the elements lapse drearily to their accustomed routine, governed, without heart, by the Power of the Sun.

[208]And it is under those conditions that the traveller in the desert must chiefly toil, or, failing to toil, sink beneath the weight of undermining, brain-drugging heat and monotony.

Wherefore a commonplace day finds me toiling the sand in a God-forgotten recess of the world. I have killed some meat for the camp, but that hardly interests me. I am aware that I am “off colour”—almost ill. But I am more disturbed still by the knowledge that I am weary, and not so strong as I was; and that slowly, insidiously, the sun is sapping my life-blood.

A Tuareg stranger is with my follower, who carries the gazelle. I hear the man being told exaggerated stories of my shooting capabilities:

“If a man walk for two days this white man still fit to reach him with gun.”

Slowly we trudge toward camp. It is about noon, and desperately hot. But I am thinking neither of the remorseless sting of the sun nor of the desolation of Africa: I am wondering if I dare break into one of our last bottles of whisky if I go under again with fever. It is the priceless medicine of the exhausted and malaria-stricken, and the meagre store cannot last to the end.

On entering camp, however, my thoughts are turned into other channels. The camels have just been watered, and recline on the sand. About half[209] of them have sores to be doctored, ugly, suppurating saddle wounds and foot wounds, fly-ridden and ill healing; so bad that every now and then they claim a victim in death. For an hour I work with scissors and knife among filth and disinfectant: crude, intimate surgery that might have turned me sick if it had not been a daily task for a long time.

The animals were then turned loose to find what scrub they could about the old well-head. But soon they lay down in the hot sun, for there was next to nothing to eat.

Elatu, the head camel-man, had gravely told me, while we worked together over the wounds, his fears and doubts of the land we travelled, and his fears and doubts of the well-being of our beasts of burden. We had camped that morning at water, but he advised that we should not stay through the day, because there was no fit pasturage for our weary, used-up camels.

Wherefore, after a meal that I barely touched, except to gulp down cup after cup of tea, we reloaded the tired camels in the small hours of the afternoon and continued slowly on our way.

Ten hours later we wearily camped, and men scarcely spoke while, in the deep darkness, they unburdened the camels, and laid themselves down to rest . . . and then the kindly hand of night was mercifully laid upon the cares of an impoverished band.

[210]IV

The caravan is in want of water, and desperately anxious to find it. Having lately detected a frayed rope and some pellets of wasted camel-dung, we are fairly certain that an old trail has been picked up.

Some hours later we become sure of water ahead when we pass a number of heaps of stones piled by human hands; the Token Stones of grateful wayfarers who have slaked their thirst in the desert, and surreptitiously left behind this expression of their thanks. The Tuaregs say that most of these token heaps are the work of slaves, who, in the past, in this way endeavoured to mark the places of water over the route they were borne as captives, in case they should ever escape. Nevertheless, few nomads of the land to-day, having drunk their fill, will pass from place of water without stooping to add further stones to the piles that sit, like symbols of some weird religion, in their path.

Two camels shoot ahead of the line. Wild, saddle-perfect Tuaregs ride them to water at a swinging trot. They mean to return, with goatskins of water, to slake the pressing thirst of the men, long before we camp.

The noon hours recede, but not the oven heat, and slowly under that weight, the long span of the afternoon drags on.

Towards dusk the journey ends, and our column moves into a curious narrow declivity that finishes[211] in a quarry-like space. We descend, and are lost from the landscape above. There is no sign of water or living soul; but the cliffs and dishevelled rocks of the den are literally covered with strange drawings and writings. With whisperings of awe one of the men who had gone in front tells that we are in a secret place of water that he has recognised. “Not many know of it,” he assures me. “A few of my people, and robbers from Ahaggar; but not the robbers from Tibesti. You are the first white man who has seen it.”

“But where is the water?” I exclaim, scanning the rocks and the sand carpet beneath my feet.

He beckoned me to go with him, and we proceeded until we came to the closed end, or cul-de-sac of the defile. Picking the way among giant boulders until the straight cliff base was reached, my camel-man then halted and pointed with a smile to a dark hole in the wall at the ground’s edge, no larger than the den of hyena or jackal. “Ama!” he exclaimed.

I sat down and lit my pipe; the place was unusual and uncanny. “Water in there, Mohammed? How the devil do you get it out? Go back and bring Sili with a waterskin, and ask Sakari to give you a candle: I want to have a look.”

When he got back we wormed our way into the hole. Past the entrance there was a cavern where a man could stand stooping. Crossing it, another long tunnel led to a further cave, lower than the first, and there, in the bowels of the earth, gleaming[212] in the candle-light, lay a black pool of water, clean, clear, and deliciously cool.

In that mysterious haven of secrecy we camped beside water in abundance . . . and thus it came to pass that the camp-fires of the white man lit the eerie, strangely scrawled cliffs of Inzanenet as the fires of those on many an escapade had often done before, if tales of the land be true.

And owls and bats and ghoul-like shadows were companions through the night, but the white vulture that points the places of water and human dwelling, marked not the sky by day, since even from him of the outer world the secret of the cave was hidden.

The caravan, at the time, is settled among a sea of wonderful sand-dunes; Erg land of the Sahara. We have found, in lake-like basins between the dunes, some good Alwat for the camels, and are inclined to delay so that the animals may benefit.

Hitherto no sign of human life had been seen—and now these men, who have followed in on our tracks.

Their camels are splendid, and elaborately saddled. They dismount on a dune crest overlooking the camp. There are four of them. The senior is a small, sharp-eyed man dressed like a prosperous Arab, while the others are tall, strangely gross-looking, and less dignified.

[213]Ordinarily their presence would be accepted without question, but my suspicions are aroused because they are curiously furtive, and have suddenly appeared in a wild region where not expected.

Joining us, they profess to be traders, and have a few trivial things about their persons to offer. Questioned as to where they have come from, and whence proceeding, their answers are evasive and contradictory. However, we elicit the information that the name of the senior man is Myram, and that he is a native of Ghat.

They remained some hours; long enough to appraise all we possessed, and our strength. In the evening they departed, heading north.

They were no sooner gone than my camel-men came forward to ask me to be careful through the night. “Those men were robbers,” they declared; “there will be others at hand.”

However, a wakeful watchful night passed uneventfully. It may have been that the camp was too well armed, or too alert; in any case, we saw no living soul again.[18]

And thereafter we spent some days among the dunes—perhaps the most beautiful and most mystical environment that one may find in the Sahara; and always the colours and shadows of morn and eve were infinite and superb.

[214]Nevertheless, the influence of these gigantic scenes of sand sometimes affects the travel-stained imagination; particularly when there is no escape from constant sameness over a prolonged period. A good illustration of how it engrosses and depresses one’s thoughts, even in sleep, is contained in a dream of Glover’s.

“I dreamt, last night, that you had received a message from the French saying that your journey had all been a mistake, and that you could not continue across the Sahara. The message went on to say that they were very sorry about the disappointment to you, but if you cared to wait you could continue north next year. You answered, ‘All right, we will wait,’ and settled to camp among the awful sand. Then I clearly saw both of us sitting there through an eternity—waiting, always waiting. And as we sat more and more sand dust covered us!—until I saw quite six inches piled upon your shoulders and arms.

“And at last I seemed to rise up and scream—‘This is awful!’ We cannot wait here longer; the dust will rise and rise for ever!’”

So that in more ways than one, camp-fires in the Ergs hold mysterious dangers.

From time to time I am asked a great many questions regarding the Sahara, and nothing has pleased me more than to find that an astonishing number of people are interested in Nature, and want to know something of the wild life in the country of my travels. Invariably the first questions put by my interrogators are: “What lives in the Great Desert?” and “However do creatures exist in such a land?”

Queries of the kind bring home realisation of how firmly is planted the popular conception that the whole of the Sahara is desert, and how difficult it becomes, once a belief is firmly planted, to convey, by a broad sweep of the hand, or pen, the complete aspect of any land by proxy. In general, it can be said that awe of the Great Desert is the main feature that has taken hold in the mind’s-eye of the public up to the present time, while the manifold changes of locality, that are common to the completed character of any country, are, as secluded havens, almost entirely overlooked. The romance of the Sahara has, as it were, swept us off our balance, and the picture is out of perspective, in[218] the rush of workaday lives that permit of little time for deep contemplation of subjects other than those that are of immediate concern.

On the other hand, when work of exploration is undertaken in a foreign land, it is the traveller’s first purpose to seek into every nook and corner, far from the beaten track; and, where the land is richest in vegetation, water, and seclusion, he expects to find the rarest prizes.

In country like the Sahara the collector is sure of his ground. The blank ranges of sand hold nothing, or next to nothing; and the desert is vast. Wherefore he ranges far and seeks for sheltered places that give of some fertility; aware that, in a land where the struggle for existence is intense, the creatures of the wild will have sought out the havens before him.

The caravan has been travelling for a few days over absolute desert. I have observed nothing except a single house-fly, noticeable, in exaggerated relief, simply because of the utter absence of other life. Ending this tract of desert, there are pebbly edges with scattered tufts of grass; farther back, a series of slight hollows with a few bushes; and, farther on still, a clump of acacias that screen the old uninhabited well that the caravan is heading for to refill sagging waterskins.

Approaching this welcome change of country, an[219] Arab Bustard takes to flight and clears right away; alert and very shy.

Along the stony margin the most likely birds are larks, and, as it is deep desert beyond, I am not surprised to see, matching the sand in paleness, a single large Curve-billed Desert Lark, and two or three Buff Saharan Larks.

Farther on, among the low shrubs and grass, I disturb a family of Brown Bush Babblers: birds about the size of a thrush that fly very low, and in the formation of a covey of partridges. They emit a fussy, piping call while in flight, but do not go far before they pitch into cover again.

In the clump of acacias beside the well I find a pair of Rufous Warblers and a Yellow Sunbird.

In the evening a few visitors come to the well to drink, having flown, perhaps, long distances from outlying feeding grounds. There are only three varieties: the Red-eyed Grey Dove, which I have come to call “the dove of the sand wastes,” because they are so often present in drear places, and a few tiny Red Waxbills and Grey Serin Finches.

When there is not water spilled at the mouth of the well, the birds have learned, in their need to drink, to descend the dark funnel to the water-level; and it is not uncommon to find some unfortunate ones floating on the surface that have fallen in and been drowned.

In country of this type birds live on the pickings of the sand or of withered leaf-blade; tiny grass seeds and seeds of plant blooms, grasshoppers,[220] crickets, ants, spiders, flies, and all minute insects that gather about the hearts of plant life in a hot climate. Through the day they hide as best they can from the intense heat, huddled in little places of shade with open, panting beaks; and in the evenings and mornings feed when the sting of the sun is less formidable.

A couple of Dorcas gazelle are sighted at sundown, and one is shot; and before the caravan departs next day, there is a Desert Raven at the remains of offal not claimed by my followers.

That, with a few variations, is the sum total of bird life seen over a number of weeks of travel in drear country. Seldom, indeed, are they plentiful; and, should one chance upon flocks in a very attractive quarter, they are likely to be of only one or two species. Hence, collecting in the Sahara is a painstaking business, entailing long trying journeys of nomadic character, from one place of promise to another, much fruitless searching, and many disappointments. But enthusiasm is the life of the collector. So that rebuffs and blank days seldom evoke despair.

In country of Tassili, which is wilderness of another type, the best places for birds are where the land is very rugged and cut up by chasms that run below the surface of the ground. There is often some shrub, weed-plants, and rough grass tufts in the gullies, which furnish some food for bird life, but the spot the collector particularly prizes is where a rare pool of permanent water lies in a rocky cleft.

[221]Such a place is Tamengouit, two days north-west of the end of the Aïr Mountains. The approaches are very rough and full of rugged rifts. The country is bleak beyond description, and of black rock; with the frowning hills of Takaraft and Abarakam in the background.

It is difficult to find passage for the camels, over rough country of this nature, and we descended at a snail’s-pace toward a sand waste in the distance; while camel-men reconnoitred in front to find a clear course unblocked by sudden chasm. After considerable loss of time, owing to set-backs that necessitated awkward detours, the caravan reached its destination, and camped.

Water was about a quarter of a mile away at the head of a sandy inlet. A bird of good omen swung slowly in the air over it: the White Vulture, that is known to the nomads as Kargi Mulet. Tuareg folklore teaches that: “If a traveller is in country that he is not familiar with and sees Kargi Mulet planing slowly to and fro in the sky, it is sure news that water, or people, or game will be found beneath where it flies. Wherefore, if anyone is lost, the sight of this bird is an omen of succour near at hand.”

To find permanent open water is very surprising in such surroundings, consequently the conditions under which it exists are of the utmost interest. A few such rock-pools and ancient wells, for the most part separated about five, six, or seven days’ march, afford the only means of obtaining water in the uttermost interior of the Sahara.

[222]Tamengouit is on latitude 20°. A chasm, that carries heavy weight of water during rare storms, leads from the distant hills out to the level sand. Just above the mouth it narrows to a long, deep gulch with high walls that completely shut out the sun. It is so narrow that it can be leapt across overhead. Down in the bottom, all along its length, lie deep black waters, inaccessible, because of the cliff walls, except at the mouth and at the top end.

One or two specimens, shot while flying overhead, pitched into the chasm and could not be gathered. There is no seepage through the rocks, and the secret of the water’s permanent existence is surely in the fact that the all-absorbing sun cannot reach it. Gloomy and cool, the chasm interior is as a thick-walled tank that no influence of the elements can penetrate.

Remarkable in itself, this rock basin is equally remarkable on account of bird life. In camp on the first night I heard Sandgrouse calling at dusk, and in the night; and knew they were flighting out of the clear sky, from unknown feeding grounds, to slake their thirst in the still chasm. Their presence was certain assurance of water known to the wild, and I turned to sleep expectant of a busy day on the morrow.

And I was not disappointed. Early morning found me at the pool, where a few Coronated Sandgrouse and Barred Sandgrouse still remained from the flocks of overnight. Otherwise all was yet[223] quiet, but I could foresee change whenever the morning feeding time was over, for there were plenty of feathers and toe-prints at the water’s edge, to tell that numerous birds were in the habit of drinking there.

I spent the time searching for Nightjars among the rocky flats beyond the chasm. Those nocturnal birds are very difficult to find, because of their perfect protective colouring among the rocks where they hide during the day, and their habit of remaining still until almost trodden upon. My search proved fruitless, and I returned to the water.

About 9 a.m., roughly, four hours after dawn, some groups of small birds, directing one another by fussy chatterings, arrived at the pool to drink, obviously very thirsty and excited because my presence was disturbing and unusual. The greatest number were Trumpeter Bullfinches, next in quantity, Grey Serin Finches, a few Striolated Buntings, and one or two little dark Saharan martins that gracefully flitted up and down the pool feeding on insects, and dipping to drink occasionally.

Concerning the latter, all Martins, Swifts, and Swallows are termed “Afurtitta” by the Tuaregs, and in their quaint folklore they are “Birds of Allah that live always in the sky with God. It is for all eyes to see that they are so entirely independent of the earth that they never descend to the ground for the food of life, and when they would drink they merely swoop to touch the surface of the water.”

[224]About ten o’clock a few Blue Rock Pigeons shot swiftly from the sky to whirl into the chasm and perch on the shady cliff ledges. I knew of their presence in some regions of Aïr in small scattered numbers, so that at first I was not altogether surprised. But when these were followed by flock after flock, until hundreds had arrived, I was astonished, for I had never before witnessed a like occurrence; nor have I since. Up till noon pigeons continued to arrive, swift-winged and desperately eager to drink; whence they came I knew not, but I judged that the late birds, at least, had come from a tremendous distance.

Pondering over the strange occurrence, which was a very extraordinary one in the Sahara, I came to the conclusion that this water, because of its permanent state, was probably long known to these fleet-flying birds; and that the news of its existence has been passed on, as birds have a way of doing, until most of the pigeons of the region knew of Tamengouit as a place of water that could be relied on in the darkest periods of drought.

One other species was seen during the morning: a Peregrine Falcon. His sudden appearance struck terror into the hearts of the pigeons, who dived to their cliff ledges, to crouch wild-eyed under the protection of the chasm, while the raider swung wide, waiting for the victim he would choose to kill. Well they knew him as the master bird of flight, possessed of speed that none might elude in a race through the air. But for once he was baulked, for[225] he feared my presence. Moreover, it was too hot for him to remain overlong at a distance in the sky. Hence, after a time, he turned definitely east and sped away to some shady ledge in ravine or mountain to await the cool of evening.

Tamengouit was but a halt by the wayside, and next day it recovered its wonted solitude as the caravan trailed slowly away.

Out in the dreariest desert there is one strange bird that the traveller may see; not commonly, but only rarely when a camel dies. On such occasions one may watch the clear blue sky, where it reaches its uttermost height, and, in time, discern the tiniest speck, at a tremendous distance, poised there for a seeming indefinite period. By and by, in like inexplicable manner, other specks foregather from unseen source beyond the sight of men. And there they may remain for hours, perhaps coming a little nearer; but on the morning following one awakes to find huge Griffon Vultures sitting ghoul-like round the carcase, waiting the time that it shall be torn asunder while one, perched on the head, endeavours to start an opening round the soft parts of the eye.

Of different character to such wilderness places of bird life are the oases of the Sahara, where a few species which I term sedentary birds are to be found; and migrants, on their way across Africa.

Date palms, garden cultivation, and open irrigation ditches, are the chief attractions to bird life in such places; but, since these are in close proximity[226] to dwellings and the disturbance of mankind, only a few species settle permanently in these localities. Birds that are fairly sure to be seen in oases are: Desert Ravens, on the look out to pillage scraps, Black Wheatears, living on the ants and flies that molest habitations, Yellow Sparrows, frequenting the palms, and Striolated Buntings that are prone to be very tame and sparrow-like about the dusty hut-doors.

The unexpected in oases is very often some migrant, if the season be March-April in the spring, or October-November in the autumn. At these times birds flight on their long, instinct-prompted voyage, across Africa, and, should one be out on the desert, strange calls may be heard overhead at night from flocks that wing their way through the sky. Some of these migrants lose their way, or lose their strength, and falter, for crossing the Great Desert is akin to crossing the sea. I have known Swallows and Wagtails and Shrikes to come flying in toward my caravan, when it was the only object in an immensity of space, and seek a resting-place on the loads of the camels. On one occasion I caught a Yellow Wagtail by putting out a hand from my seat in the saddle to seize it as a cricketer clutches a ball. It was in great distress, and I tipped my water-bottle until the bird could see the water at the mouth. Immediately it drank hungrily, though clasped in my hand. I carried it thereafter until an oasis was reached, when I set it free.

[227]In cruel, ungiving desert the traveller, at times, comes across the pitiful skeletons of birds that have perished from thirst and want on ill-fated pilgrimage. And mortal mind pauses in sympathy with the wild in the appalling poverty of such a lingering death; for all who know the desert are aware of the grim price that is paid by any living creature unfortunate enough to become involved in the folds of a land that expresses neither mercy nor hate, yet slowly kills with terrifying intent.

On the other hand, distressed migrants sometimes find succour in landing at oases. And the numbers of wayfarers that drift into such harbours in this way are astonishing because they are so out of place in their temporary sandy surroundings. For instance, I have shot our Common Snipe in the Sahara, and collected Tern, Stilt, Sandpiper, Shoveller, Pintail, Teal, Heron, and others that have nothing whatever in common with the country.

It would be irksome to go into all the details that surround the bird life of the Sahara, but a few further notes on the Tuareg folklore that relates to certain species may be of interest before concluding. In each case I give the native name of the Tuaregs.

The Black Wheatear is known to the nomad as Seni Seni. “It is the bird that brings news of strangers; particularly news of robbers. If anyone strange is approaching, Seni Seni flies at once into a prominent position and perches perfectly still, attentively watching. Whenever the little[228] bird becomes satisfied that the figures are strangers it commences to bob its head rapidly up and down; and so one may take warning. If they are not strangers assuredly the bird will hop down to pick about the ground and take no further notice.”

Another bird, according to their folklore, warns the nomad of the presence of snakes. This is Tagishit Aschiel, the Lesser Rufous Warbler, which spends most of its time about the kind of tangled undergrowth that snakes are given to frequent.

“Whenever Tagishit Aschiel detects a snake he will cry out vigorously and constantly, so that from our hut doors we may hear him, and run out and find the vile reptile; which we are glad to kill, for we fear them about our encampments.”

Yet another bird of warning is: Agishit n’Ugur: the large Yellow Barbet, which is: “The Jackal Bird; because whenever it sees a Jackal it gives out a loud rilling call, and makes a great to-do until the enemy of our flocks is driven away.”

Ashara, the Rufous-breasted Starling, is: “The bird of omen of death, because when it is heard in the evening or at night making a noise resembling the tearing of robes for a shroud, it is likely that on the morrow we shall hear that one of our people has died.”

Zunkusharat, the great Curve-billed Desert Lark: “An evil bird of which all nomads teach their children to beware, because of its alluring habit of flying only a short distance before resettling. Unwary boys think they can catch it easily and are[229] thus led away into the desert without watching where they go; until they are lost.”

Ebakorian-Mallam is a name sometimes applied to the Buff Saharan Lark, the latter part of the name being Hausa, meaning scholar or teacher or priest. “For it is a saintly bird that is always at peace, and robs no one. It is content with the seeds by the wayside, and disturbs neither cultivation nor place of dwelling.”

Bi-Allah. The tiny Red Senegal Waxbill, is “The bird of perpetual content. All day it picks about the doorstep and roosts in the lintel; and all our people know it as emblematic of peace and unconcern, and so have termed it ‘the tiny priest of God.’”

Tedabear Takleet, the Palm Dove, is smaller than the Grey Dove, and, when both happen to be feeding or drinking together, the larger dove domineers the smaller. Takleet means slave, and therefore, in Tuareg folklore, “the Palm Dove is the slave of the Grey Dove.”

Tilel, the Guinea Fowl, has a curious legend concerning it which has arisen because of the blood-red wattles on the head. “See, he is marked by the blow where man hit him, because he would not show people place of water. And ever since that time he has been a dazed fool bird, so that anyone is able to catch him in the trees.”

The outcome of prolonged research in the Sahara during 1919 and 1920, and again in 1922 and 1923, was that altogether 134 different species and subspecies[230] of birds were collected for Lord Rothschild from the Sahara, and seventy-three additional varieties from the Western Sudan.

The following are the additional seventy-three species and subspecies that were found in the Western Sudan on the southern margins of the Sahara between latitudes 12° and 16°:

Lacking the wings of the feathered world, the animal life of the Sahara has not the same highly convenient means of passing from place to place, when the necessity arises to evacuate exhausted feeding ground and find more favourable country. Therefore, if hard pressed, they move carefully, and only at certain seasons, and are apt to cling closely to favoured regions, where such are found.

Any real migratory instinct is, with a few exceptions, not pronounced in the animals of the Sahara, and by far the greater number remain closely confined within their natural types of country, even though these are impoverished and struggle for an existence is keen.

If, on a map of the western portion of Africa, we glance along a line from south to north, starting from Kano in Northern Nigeria, which is about latitude 12°, it is possible to get a rapid idea from the creatures of the country of the change from tropical regions to Saharan regions.

At Kano may be found that loathsome reptile, the Crocodile, and, in the same latitude, Lion; west of Katsina, Elephants, and scattered groups of[238] Giraffe right to the shores of the Sahara in the bush country of Damergou.

The northern boundary of Damergou, which runs along the outer edge of the bush belt, may be taken to be about latitude 16°; and it is there, at the junction between bush and desert, that one finds the line of decided change. Curiously enough, as if to incite one to remember, before entering the desert, the good things that go with a bush-land, it is close to, and on, that very line that four of the most handsome Gazelle and Antelope of Africa are to be found at their best: the White Oryx, Addax, Red-fronted Gazelle, and Damas Gazelle.

All through the dry season—long, weary months among sun-withered vegetation—these animals frequent the margins of bush and desert; but when the rains of the Sudan set in they move out from the sheltered, fly-infested scrub on to the open plains, to enjoy a far-reaching freedom and the fresh winds of the boundless spaces. The Red-fronted Gazelle and Damas Gazelle are content with wandering at no great range beyond their permanent locality, but the White Oryx and Addax, which have strong nomadic instincts and ever move restlessly from place to place, wander right away north when driven from the bush. I have seen them in latitude 18°, and the footprints of Addax in the sand as far north as latitude 22°, while Tuaregs of Ahaggar report the same animal to be west of the mountains on latitude 25°. This is not altogether surprising in respect to the Addax, as a[239] few are found south of Tunis and Algeria, but it may not always be realised that the main stock of the species originates in the bush-belt that pertains along latitude 16°, which forms the shores of the Sahara in the Western Sudan and, doubtless, it is the same line, away eastward, that is the chief habitat of the Addax in Kordofan in the Egyptian Sudan.

Once clear of the bush, the species of big game that live in the Sahara throughout the year are very limited. Dorcas Gazelle is the principal animal, and may be found throughout the interior in small numbers; sometimes approachable, if the country is broken; sometimes excessively wild in the open wastes. Its protective sand-colour is remarkable, and, standing still, it is often passed over in scanning a landscape, though perhaps broadside on, in full view, and at no great distance. On occasions of the kind I have suddenly realised that I stood face to face with one of these beautiful creatures, and have ejaculated under my breath: “Good heavens, I must have been asleep not to have seen you before!”

In addition to the above, one or two Damas Gazelle were seen in Aïr and in Ahaggar, feeding on the vegetation of sandy wadis, and a few rare Wart Hog in the former mountains. But there end the ungulate animals of the Sahara, excepting the king of them all, the Arui, or Barbary Sheep, which I will return to later.

Of the lesser animals the chief of interest are:[240] Jackals, Lynx, Wild Cats, Hyenas, Foxes, Fennecs, Ratel, Ground Squirrels, Gerbils, Spiny Mice, Jerboas, Porcupines, Gundis, Dassies, and Hares.

Like the bird life, but even more so, these animals are nowhere plentiful, and the species collected were obtained over a prolonged period, and through traversing a tremendous extent of country. Sixty-four different species and subspecies were collected altogether, representing examples of almost every animal that lives on the shores of the Sahara and in its interior, and these have proved of the greatest scientific value to the authorities of the British Museum in linking up the mammalogy across a vast tract of Africa. The mammals of my first expedition were collected for Lord Rothschild, who generously presented a set of all species obtained to the British Museum, and I was glad to add the results of the second expedition to our national museum to make the whole as complete as possible.

The collections contained no fewer than fifteen new species and eleven new subspecies, which Messrs. Oldfield Thomas and M. A. C. Hinton, of the British Museum, have declared to be one of the most remarkable collections of novelties ever secured in the history of mammalogy.

I feel that, to give some impressions of the animal life of the land, they should be dealt with under one or two aspects. The first place of interest is the southern shore of the Sahara, particularly at the time of rains—August-September, or thereabouts.

[241]To any caravan out on the trail rains are a tremendous discomfort, and with camels, in wet weather the drawbacks are increased. Yet it often falls to the lot of the traveller to journey through the worst of weather, and on my second expedition it happened to be my wish to reach the neighbourhood of the bush edge at the season in question because of the movement of game.

In accomplishing this my caravan experienced outdoor conditions at their worst. Everyone knows the intensity of tropical storms in their wild, spasmodic outbursts. When the weather broke the caravan was beset with periods of low-flung thunder and lightning, hurricane winds, and torrential rains that swooped across the land with alarming rapidity and malignant fierceness. Enforced camps had to be hurriedly pitched to protect valued specimens and perishable baggage, while the work of skinning, which was always my concern, was impossible, even under canvas, owing to the fierceness of wind and driving rain.

Each day, at one time or another while en route—sometimes at an extremely awkward hour, when only a short distance had been travelled from the last camp—great black clouds would race up from the skyline, to be watched anxiously until the first deep rumblings of thunder gave warning to hasten to take cover. Whereat the camels had to be halted at once on any piece of raised ground near at hand that gave promise of not being under water when the torrent should fall. It was always[242] a mad race against the elements. So soon as the brutes were on their knees camel-men hurriedly released the loads from the saddles, then piled them in a heap, and covered all with a large ship’s tarpaulin carried for the purpose. At the same time a tent would be hurriedly pitched.

Sometimes we were ready for the onslaught of the storm just in the nick of time, or got drenched to the skin battling to hold down the last few tent-ropes and drive home secure pegs as the first wave of the gale hurled in upon us. Then, packed into the small space of the tent, masters and men crouched, sheltering from the storm, and waited impotently its passing. No meal could be cooked—not even a comforting cup of tea. If it happened to be evening, or night, camp-beds and blankets had perforce to remain unpacked among the baggage. Sometimes the operator and I slept on the ground, under cover of the tent, in the clothes we stood in, and went to bed foodless. On other occasions we risked the rain and sought such rest as could be found in wet bedding, soaked either by actual rain or the heavy dew that always followed.

This did not end discomfort. Mosquitoes and sand-flies followed these storms, and were terrible pests. I have never known them more persistent and venomous, and everyone suffered from poisonous scars, as if we had been attacked by swarms of bees. So bad were they that some of the natives slept on platforms in the branches of thorn-trees, gaining some little relief from their tormentors[243] in these elevated but body-racking “crows’ nests.”

But my camels suffered most of all. The poor brutes appeared to get no rest whatever, even round the smoke of huge log fires that were built, when it was possible, to keep away the pests. All night they could be heard tossing and rolling in the sand to throw off their tormentors: vain efforts that brought barely a moment’s relief, for the air hummed with armies of the terrible insects.

These were our troubles in camp. When it was fine enough to travel we found a fairyland of damp, fragrant sand from which fresh green shoots were already springing, while insects hummed and birds twittered with all the gladness of a wonderful dawn. The magic touch of abundant rain was upon the land, though swift would be its passing.

It was the season for wild life to be abroad. Game, and tracks of game, were abundant. Damas Gazelle were seen in picturesque herds, their white sides and rumps showing in the bush like silver on a cloth of green, while the more sedately coloured Red-fronted Gazelle and Dorcas Gazelle, in small parties or pairs, were passed at almost every turning on the trail.

Ostriches, great birds that never seem to rest, were sometimes sighted far off, passing on their journey of the day, picking a morsel here and there, but never ceasing in their onward march.

Giraffe was seen only once, but on a number of occasions their fresh tracks were crossed. These[244] were left unfollowed, as a specimen of the species was not wanted.

After those brief days of torrential rain-bursts all tracks in the tell-tale sand told that the game were moving out northward as the growth of fresh vegetation advanced. My caravan followed the same course. On the outer bush-edge those beautiful antelope, the White Oryx, were encountered, and small bands of cattle-like Addax: animals that appear almost equally white at a distance, until the black forehead and dark-marked limbs of the latter can be discerned. Both are adorned with magnificent heads of horns, three feet to three feet six inches in length, or thereabouts.

These animals are given to restless roaming across open plains of sand, feeding chiefly on scant grass-tufts, where there is little cover, except an odd acacia, solitary or in a straggling group, and the sentinel-like Jiga, which is the choice tree of the solitudes, and the favoured shade of game.

It is under such scattered, dwarf-sized trees that Oryx and Addax are in the habit of resting when the sun is at its height; and it was then that I had a chance to get within rifle-shot, by manœuvring to utilise any slight dip in the land, and by crawling or sprawling long distances flatwise on my “tummy.” By reason of the extreme openness of the country it was stalking of a high order, and hence nerve-exciting and engrossing. Specimens for the museum were wanted, and, although I lost most of the skin from my knees owing to the[245] cutting nature of the hot, sharp sand, I had one or two glorious hunts that ended successfully, and made ample compensation.

White Oryx are killed locally on occasion, by the few Tuaregs and Beri-Beri who roam the region. They ride them down on horseback in the following manner.

When an animal is sighted, and chosen as the quarry, the long race starts, but eventually the Oryx shows the horse a clean pair of heels. The persistent hunter then follows the tracks in the sand until the quarry is again sighted, and a second race ensues. At the end of this struggle of speed the Oryx may break down and become so hopelessly broken-winded that it is easily approached and destroyed. Sometimes a third race is necessary, and, on rare occasions, a fourth. Escape is only possible if the stamina of the horse is over sorely tried, and the hunter has pity enough to cease asking more of his mount.

Jackals and Striped Hyenas were plentiful in the neighbourhood of the game and a few were seen, and tracks of their night prowlings constantly. I have a note regarding the remarkable strength of the Hyena. One day, having skinned a large male ostrich, I had the discarded carcass (not eaten by the natives because its throat had not been cut, as their Mohammedan religion demands) drawn about forty yards away from the camp. At dusk a single Hyena came to the carcass and, to the astonishment of all, commenced to pull it farther[246] away so that it might enjoy the feast out of danger of its enemies. It had taken no less than four strong men to drag the same carcass, by aid of ropes, from camp to the position it occupied—a task this single Hyena was capable of. I have scaled dead ostrich, and know that this particular bird weighed in the neighbourhood of 300 lbs.

In the interior of the Sahara there is nothing to compare with the game to be found on its southern margin. The desert is practically barren excepting in rare wadis that have sufficient vegetation to attract a few Dorcas Gazelle, and perhaps a Desert Fox or Wild Cat, or the like, that feed chiefly on the rodents about the tussock bottoms.

But the mountain regions are havens to a certain amount of animal life, and it is there that one finds the Arui, or Barbary Sheep. In Aïr they are sufficiently rare—because of the altitudes they frequent and the wildness of the mountains, not because of their numbers—to make the quest for them highly interesting. In Ahaggar they are very scarce.

Wild and keen-sensed in sight and hearing, and in difficult country, these mountain sheep are fine animals to hunt, from the point of view of the sportsman. They live in magnificently wild fastnesses, and are truly superb creatures; particularly when caught at eve or dawn poised on the precarious pinnacles of the world, sniffing the wind and inquiring the dangers of the crags beneath them.

[247]But they are never seen unless diligently searched for, and, on account of the wild nature of their haunts, hunting them is strenuous in the extreme. They hide in the cool depths of caves and cairns through the day and venture out toward dusk to feed all through the night. At dawn they again seek shelter. Coolness and darkness appear necessary to their existence; heat and sunlight they avoid.

When I had come to comprehend their habits I more or less adapted my life to theirs in hunting them. I sought the hills, toward dusk, with rifle and blanket, to pick my way steadily up into the mountain-tops, sometimes sighting sheep on the way; then sleeping in some sheltered nook on the summit, till the quest was renewed at the first hint of dawn.

The wild ruggedness of the country is unbelievable until one is actually in amongst the endless range of valleys and slopes that are thick with the disordered rocks and gigantic boulders that make up the crags and corries and cairns which meet one on every side. The hunter requires to be nimble as a cat to leap and step quietly in such surroundings, and noiselessness is essential if the keen-sensed Arui is to be successfully approached. Wherefore one must go barefooted or with soft-soled shoes, and in consequence feet and shins suffer many bruises and jars on the hard, cruel rocks, particularly in travelling when it is very dark. I had no serious accident in those wild hills; only a few[248] minor ones. I once lost the nail of a big toe through a stone giving way and turning over to pin my foot beneath it. On another occasion, through my attention being distracted by movement below, I stepped into space, and had an ugly fall, which was not lightened by my efforts to save my precious rifle. But miraculously no bones were broken, though knees, arms, hands, and face bled so freely that anyone might have thought I was a proper ambulance case.

I was particularly anxious to secure good examples of the Arui of Aïr, which had not been collected by anyone before (which, as a new subspecies, has since been named Ammotragus lervia angusi (Rothsch.) in my honour). Hence I spent many nights in the lone mountains and laid my head to rest in some wild, eerie spots, unknown to the eyes of men. It was a wonderful experience to be all night high up in the great mountains, and to watch the final lights of eve, and dawn. Indeed, I came to know these hills in another complexion. From afar I had always thought them frowning and black, while now I discovered them soft smoke blue in the mornings, and shades of mauve when touched with the late evening sun.

Dawn is the most favourable hour for hunting. It is then that the Arui ascend the steep and bouldered mountain slopes from wild corries where they have been browsing overnight, on a scattering of hardy shrubs and wiry grass, to seek dark resting-place for the day among great cairns near[249] the summits where the air remains cool and shade complete. And that is the time when the hunter has a chance to intercept them on the way to their lairs.

As a rule, I found them difficult animals to secure, but was greatly aided in hunting them latterly, by coming to realise a curious trait of theirs, which was, that if a sheep was sighted looking intently from a prominence in a certain direction it would, when it moved, surely travel in that direction. Wherefore, by making a detour, it was possible sometimes to intercept the quarry without stalking it directly.

I have seen fairly young mountain sheep in January, and believe they are dropped about the season when rains may occur, viz. August-September.

The Arui were found in Aïr at any altitude between 2,000 and 5,000 feet; but in the hottest season of the year, which reaches its climax about July, they are prone to abandon the lower altitudes and live altogether in the high summits, where it is coolest.

If rain falls at the season it is due they roam widely and come low down to browse on the short-lived green feeding that soon springs up. At such times they find pools in almost every ravine, and they are animals that are very fond of water.

Of the specimens collected all were not weighed. However, 164 lbs. was a good male, and 112 lbs. a fair female. The best horns measured just over[250] 26 inches. The Tuaregs call the Arui Afitall in Aïr, and Oudel in Ahaggar.

The final aspect I will refer to, regarding the animal life of the land, is of an ordinary day in the course of travel.

We are camped in the outlying hills of Aïr. It is a region where there is no winter even in the depth of the year, but in December and January the nights are bitterly cold.

The caravan sets out at dawn on the journey of the day, and the smouldering logs of a night-fire are left behind with regret.

We start over a land of sand and rocks, with high-reaching mountain slopes some miles in the forefront.

It is too early for birds to be showing. Like ourselves, they are feeling the uncommon cold, and shelter among the bushes on the banks of the river-beds until the sun grows warm and the land returns to its accustomed stifling heat.

It is the hour for game to be abroad. In the broken-up valley land a few beautiful little Dorcas Gazelle, of the colour of the sand, are seen busy breakfasting on slim, delicate grasses that they search for in open places. They are the most numerous game in Aïr; unlike the Mountain Sheep, which in comparison are rare, owing to their shyness and the nature of their almost inaccessible haunts. These two animals are the meat-giving game to the few natives of the land. There is one other—the large and handsome white-flanked[251] Damas Gazelle, an exceedingly timid animal that is seldom seen in an ordinary day’s travel.

If I had set out expecting to see much I should have been disappointed, for hours pass and nothing of unusual consequence is encountered. But I know Aïr as a lone, deserted land where one has to be content with little.

I read the trail as the camels move along, particularly when sheets of sand are spread before me. No one has passed ahead; no print of camel foot or donkey hoof marks the surface anywhere. The neat little cloven-hoof prints of Gazelle are fairly numerous and the feet of Field-mice have drawn countless little daisies on the sand where they have fed through the night about tussocks of grass.

Other footprints tell where a Short-Eared Hare has loped across the ground, and I see where a hungry Jackal has picked up the trail and hurried in pursuit. At a cluster of bush I find the up-turnings of a Porcupine that has been burrowing and tearing at a shrub-bottom to feed on its favourite food—the roots of the pale-limbed, big-leaved bush which the Tuaregs call Tirza.

In a shallow, dried-up river-bed the camels are guided clear of a regular warren of holes scooped out in the night by a Ratel in search of dormant frogs buried in the sand a foot or two beneath the surface.

Nearing camping time the caravan reaches a terrace margin and descends a rocky slope, where the camels have difficulty in picking their way.[252] A strange, wild valley lies in the unexpected level below, and a dry river-bed in a deep ravine. It is a drear valley-side, and the caravan passes on into the ravine below. In a cliff I find a deep, dark cave, and strike a match to enter it. It proves to be an old den of Hyenas; their footprints are on the dusty sand and the floor is littered with the bones of camels and other animals. The roof of the cave is festooned with the honeycombs of wasps, but the hives are forsaken.

By this time the journey of the day has drawn to a close, and we camp to rest and eat, and refresh both man and beast, while my skinning-table and knives are set ready for the work of the evening on specimens that, mayhap, shall add to the knowledge of the world.

Altogether, forty-two different species and subspecies of animals were collected from the Sahara and twenty-two additional varieties from the Western Sudan, on its southern shores.

Twenty-two additional mammals found in the Western Sudan, on the southern margin of the Sahara, between latitudes 12° and 16°:

To succeed in crossing the Sahara was the one great purpose of the expedition that stood out before all others from the day of starting until the end.

Consequently anxious thoughts were ever pointed to the north throughout the whole period of travel, and in due time it followed that the North Star became my most significant and constant friend.

It is known to the Tuaregs by the name Elkelzif, and on many occasions I have, with something of pride, told my camel-men, or explained to strangers of the trail, “Under that star lies my house”; and so it seemed in its distant, steadfast position. It became, in fact, the definite symbol of home, the elusive “light” of a distant land that I must ever endeavour to reach, and when it showed in the sky it was welcomed almost with affection, and always as a friend. And these feelings may be understood when it is remembered that my caravan travelled or lay beneath its guiding light for over four hundred nights, which is a long time anywhere; mayhap, oppressively long in the monotony of great solitudes.

Always, through long weary nights, the North[258] Star twinkled in its steadfast place, with the pointers of “The Plough,” out-stationed like signposts, seeming to direct the traveller to take notice and take heart from the countenance of their sovereign light, that clearly gleamed over the broad highway hung from the roof of heaven.

And, always facing that friendly star, the farther my camels travelled toward it the nearer I came to the goal; until at long last great hope arose that my caravan would get through.

It was then May of the second year. The caravan had reached the Algerian Sahara and was riding hard for rail-head.

But how altered from the start was my little band and its possessions! It had been composed of thirty-six camels and fifteen natives at the commencement, in the spring of the previous year; now all the camels had gone, except Feri n’Gashi, the camel I rode. Awena, the last of the others, had fallen out on the 16th. Of the original natives only two remained: Ali, an Arab of Ghat, and Sakari, a Hausa of Kano. Lack of stamina, sickness, and failure in courage had claimed the rest at various stages of the journey. Only two died as the result of the undertaking.

When to me came hope of reaching the goal Sakari’s impression at the same moment was that he had come so far that he would never see home again.

During those latter stages it is not too much to say that Glover (the cinema operator) and I were[259] bubbling over with happy anticipations. The most discussed subject, next to the thoughts of those who waited our coming, was our conjectures of the enjoyment we should have in eating real food again. That which appealed vastly to both of us was the prospect of pure white bread and butter—no doubt because we had lived so long in a state of constant sandy grittiness, and had almost forgotten the taste and the delicious purity of a fresh oven-loaf. Also, during this month, we had nothing left to eat other than rice and couscous.

Shortage of food, that had been a grave problem in the past, no longer worried us, however, and gaily we laughed over the joyous thought that all those trials would soon be over. We recalled how, four months ago, the last of luxuries was down to a half-bottle of whisky and two bars of soap.

And so we plodded steadily over the last lap with big hearts, forcing the pace toward home over the still unchanging sand, despite an overpowering desire to sleep in the saddle which now beset us fitfully, partly because vitality was exhausted and partly because of the low altitude, which was now almost down to sea-level.

At last only two days and a night of serious travel lay ahead to Ouargla; thence four days to the rail-head at Touggourt.

South of Ouargla the desert lies in all its bleakness. There is yet no hint of change, though we know we are creeping swiftly in upon civilisation,[260] and that an important oasis is almost within a stone’s-throw, which contains the Headquarters of the Territoire des Oases.

On May 29th the caravan travelled seven hours before being interrupted by a sandstorm, which forced us to camp while the sand drove over us in seething clouds. Even to the end it would seem that the sands must fight my little band.

On the following day the caravan journeyed till noon, and camped, while heavy wind again made conditions uncomfortable. We reloaded at dusk, and by the light of a lovely moon travelled in close to Ouargla: a ride full of remembrance for me, for thoughts were active, and dwelt on the long trail behind with some regrets and sadness, and on the short trail in front with gladness; and the night was fittingly still on the heels of the turmoil of a stormy day. But lonely thoughts were almost past, and the society of mankind at hand.

In the morning we journeyed into Ouargla, coming suddenly out of the desert within sight of the low, crouching oasis. It was not an auspicious arrival. From the distance there was a subdued stillness about the place. Great heat radiated from the sun, and the oasis seemed asleep beneath its influence. The houses discerned appeared deserted. Then a solitary figure in white crossed a glaring space of sand and passed out of sight; and all was still again.

[261]While we were marvelling over this curious lack of movement, a small knot of people at last detached themselves from beneath the shade of a group of date-palms, and in time we made out that they were riding horses and coming towards us. It proved to be the Officer in Command at Ouargla and some Arab officials. We were offered a very warm welcome, and I learned that my host was Captain Belvalette.

We were duly ushered to the fort and allotted real houses to camp in: a foretaste of the change before us. But that the change would not always be acceptable, at first, I realised when night came, and I tossed and turned within the stuffy space of four walls. My wish was then for the untrammelled star-lit sky.

During that day, and the next, we enjoyed the hospitality of Captain Belvalette and his wife, who left no stone unturned to make us thoroughly welcome and comfortable. We left those kind folks on June 2nd with gratitude and regret, and travelled constantly until we reached Touggourt in the forenoon of the 5th, which was the last day we mounted camels. And the record of the distance that my caravan had travelled from rail-head to rail-head was 3,556 miles; not including all the side-hunting that necessarily falls to the lot of the naturalist in the field.

Baggage was off-loaded for the last time, before a group of curious strangers that soon collected, recognising that we had come from afar. When[262] they had ascertained that we had travelled all the way from the West Coast of Africa they gaped at us as if we were unreal.

About midday I parted from my camel, Feri n’Gashi, to whom I was tremendously attached, for he had faithfully carried me throughout the journey. He seemed to understand that the end had come, and it was a strange, sad-eyed farewell between master and dumb friend, with strong desire to remain together in my thoughts, and, I think, in his. I know I had a lump in my throat, and as for him—well, he could not tell me that which he wished to say.

He looked well, considering all he had gone through, and I sent him away to enjoy a well-earned rest, having arranged with Captain Belvalette that he should return to Ouargla and be cared for so long as he lived. I had no inkling of the rapid sequel. The rest he was to have was of another order, for in the afternoon Ali came running to me in consternation to tell that Feri n’Gashi was dead.[21] I could not believe it, and was deeply moved when I came to understand that it was only too true; Ali was almost as much concerned, for he was a good native, with a very active and sensitive mind. He held my camel in high esteem because of its splendid service throughout the journey, and he had watched and comprehended the intimacy that had grown up between master and camel.

“You see, Master, he has died while sitting as usual on the ground. He has passed in complete peace. He has neither struggled nor turned over, as is the way of camels; his head has simply fallen forward. . . . Is it not Kismet? He has always been ridden by the big white master, and it is not fit that black man go ride him after that—so he go die.”

Feri n’Gashi’s death cast a heavy cloud over our thoughts for the remainder of the day. Nevertheless, we had much to occupy us in other directions, for we proposed catching the train which left for the coast that night. All our strange assortment of outdoor baggage had to be relieved of their camel trappings and made to look as respectable as possible, then labelled and conveyed down the dusty track to the station. It was dark before the task was done.

Glover and I then enjoyed a square meal at the wood-framed “Hôtel Oases,” and laid in some supplies for the journey; particularly French cigarettes and drinks.

At 9 p.m. the train departed from Touggourt for Algiers, bearing the stock of weather-worn possessions of an expedition, and four tattered, but tolerably healthy-looking wanderers—Glover, myself, and the two natives, Ali and Sakari. The two latter were vastly intrigued with their new mode of travel, particularly with the idea of their sitting still while they flew over the country without the[264] necessity of their doing a stroke of work or undergoing a moment’s physical fatigue.

During the journey one thing made us all as delighted and happy as children—the wonderful green landscape after leaving Biskra. We never tired of feasting our eyes on the uncommon beauty of the countryside, so green with cultivation, and even decked with flowers. To our sand-tired vision it was a marvellous sight, and we knew then, undoubtedly, that we had left the desert behind.

On June 7th we reached Algiers, and were met by the British Vice-Consul, Mr. Gallienne, who gave us a real welcome. He was a man of wonderful foresight, for we had just exchanged greetings when he put his hand in his pocket and produced some English tobacco, saying: “I thought you might be in need of this.” We were so much in need of it that we almost embraced the poor man in our joy. Tobacco had been our most difficult “want” to cope with for many months.

One thing tickled Gallienne’s imagination. I caught him looking at me; whereupon he explained: “You know, I had pictured you lean, and about seven feet tall, and with a broad Scot’s accent. You are certainly lean, but I’ll need to take quite a foot off that stature; as for your accent, it’s no’ verra hieland.”

He was indeed a real good soul, for, when we got into quarters, he set out on all sorts of strange errands, and seemed to enjoy the fun of dress rehearsal in preparing two tattered ragamuffins[265] for the exacting stage of civilisation. Collars, ties, shirts, underclothing, hats: all are difficult articles to choose for other men at any time, but more than difficult when the persons they are intended for have forgotten the sizes of everything they used to wear.

Those were crowded hours of wonderful joy, such as only men may experience who come in at last from the long trail.

And when I lay down to sleep at night, in a bed incredibly soft, my thoughts were overflowing with gratitude that I had lived for this day.

And then I remembered my little friend in the sky, and rising, drew aside the window-blind to find the North Star in its steadfast place gleaming down on picturesque Algiers, and gleaming too, I knew, above a certain Highland village, now no longer remote, . . . and in my mind nestled the thought that the most beautiful place on earth, even to those who wander, is Home.

“Over thirteen months had passed since my husband had sailed, and the homecoming seemed near; and a very beautiful thought to dream about. The months that had passed had been anxious ones, but always full of hope. However, now I was growing troubled. Letters had always been irregular, but for three whole months I had received no mail or news of any kind. Although my husband had warned me this might happen when he was in the interior, I felt uneasy.

[266]“On April 11th I had a strange presentiment. I was sitting by the fire, sewing, in the evening, when something impelled me to look up at my husband’s photograph which hangs over the fireplace. He seemed to cry ‘Olga!’ three times distinctly, and I felt sure he was ill, and calling me. I went to bed that night very sad and miserable. Sleep was impossible, and always his vision appeared before me. When morning came I put on a brave face and tried to forget the uneasy feelings I had had all night. Just as I started my breakfast I received a cable from Fort Tamanrasset, via Algiers, which threw some light on my strange presentiment. It stated that my husband was badly injured, and would have to abandon further travel.

“Never, never shall I forget that day; everything seemed black and all my hopes shattered. I had been brave for long, but now my heart seemed to fail me, and I was foolish enough to think the worst would happen and he would never return.

“My wee daughter Sheila was my great consoler. With her wee arms tightly round my neck, she would always whisper: ‘It’s all right, Mummie. Daddy will come home to us soon, soon.’

“However, in spite of these fears I afterwards received another message which was much more assuring, for it told that my husband was proceeding, and even continuing to hunt. (Which I learned from his servant, afterwards, he did on crutches and by shooting from his camel.)

“Time seemed to fly on then; and the Consul-General of Algiers, Sir Basil Cave, very kindly advised me when he got news that my husband was safely through to the north.

“On June 7th I received a most exciting cable from my husband at Algiers, telling me of his safe[267] arrival, and that he would land on the following Monday at Dover. It is quite impossible for me to express just what my feelings were when I read the glorious news. All the weary months of waiting were swept aside with the joy of homecoming.

“The following night I went south to London, hardly knowing how to wait for Monday to come. On Perth station I was very proud and happy when I saw on the placards:

The porters and inspectors were full of excitement, for most of them knew my husband, and more than one eagerly helped me with my luggage and packed me off happy to meet the man they had sent on his journey sixteen months before.

“June 11th arrived at last, a glorious hot June day. I travelled from Charing Cross to Dover, and, while going down in the train, I read a paragraph in The Times which made me wonder if I was a day too soon. It stated that my husband had arrived in Paris and was due in London the following Tuesday evening. This was Monday, and I kept wondering, all the way down, if I was to be disappointed when the Channel steamer came in.

“Arriving at Dover, in company with Mrs. Glover, the cinema operator’s wife, we discovered it was impossible to get on the quay without a permit, which, in my excitement, I had omitted to obtain in London. I was told I must see the Marine Superintendent and get a pass from him. Entering a small office, I stood and waited anxiously. Presently a big, burly, seafaring man entered from[268] an inner room. Scrutinising me with stern eyes he gruffly demanded my business. In a very nervous and anxious manner I explained I had come to meet my husband. That information seemed to produce not the slightest effect, and I had a dreadful feeling that my request would be refused point-blank. Realising this, I made another attempt, and told how my husband had been away sixteen months, and that I did so wish to meet the incoming boat. I was answered by silence, while I could feel those eyes trying to read me through. At last, turning sharply, he said ‘Humph! We have lots of people like you here’; and then, to a man at his elbow, ‘Write out a pass.’

“What a moment! I shall never forget it! There seemed hundreds of faces on board, but only one that counted for me. Leaning over the rail, with eyes keenly searching among the waiting crowd, stood my husband, burnt almost black with the scorching sun of the Sahara. It was a wonderful moment, and meeting, full of suppressed emotion, each feeling that at last the great trek was done, and now we could look to home and comforts that had for so long been impossible.

“After the first joy of our meeting was over, I was amazed and somewhat bewildered to see two natives in their strange and picturesque native dress following as close to my husband as space would allow. They beamed broadly when they saw me and realised I was their master’s wife, and at once proceeded to salaam to me with deep bows to the ground. They followed my husband all through the Customs, so closely that they gave one[269] the impression that if they missed him for a single minute they would be lost for ever.

“I asked one if he felt cold. He replied: ‘Yes, Miss—plenty cold.’ (Which may tell of the heat of the Sahara, for it was a lovely June day.) He then explained that: ‘Master be plenty strong, and in Sahara go walk, walk, walk all the time; and after that plenty work—he never go for sleep.’ These thoughts seemed to be uppermost in his mind.

“At this point the Marine Superintendent came up to me and, with an ingratiating smile, remarked that I was all right now. Then he told me that he had read in the morning’s paper of my husband’s trip, and that it had been well worth while to watch our happy meeting, and to realise what the pass meant to me. He then shook my husband warmly by the hand, and we all stood chatting together.

“Afterwards we proceeded to London and, following a brief stay, which seemed to be full of interviews with the Press, and in every way a whirl of excitement, we came at last home to Scotland and the restfulness of a Highland village.

“Our wee girl Sheila ran to the gate to meet us, and the faithful old Labrador, Niger, who was overjoyed at sight of his long-lost master. . . . And all the long, weary months of waiting were forgotten, and the lovely thought stood out that the object of the expedition had been achieved, and we were once again to be together.”

What tremendous import lies behind the single word that heads this final chapter! Indeed, it may be the key-word to the whole future of the universe, for civilisation, or rather, over-civilisation, is swaying the world from all reasonable balance, while we drift with the tide, or struggle unheard: and no plan evolves to set back the engulfing flood.

If civilisation succeeded to that end alone it would be a happy world indeed. But has not the so-called civilisation of to-day decidedly turned toward other intents altogether, where greed and selfishness largely play an absorbing part?

This may be said not only of our own land, but of the whole of the civilised world, which feels the weight of industrial despondency, and I dwell on these thoughts without rancour toward my fellows, for no one can foretell the purpose of evolution.

[274]Fortunate are those who can accept the circumstances of life with grave thoughtfulness rather than consternation; and that is a rich teaching, learned, so far as I am concerned, in the world’s wilderness, where life is sweet and realities naked. To those whose lot it is to look on, how empty seems the frantic blame of parliament that succeeds parliament in the government of countries, and how like the howlings of wolves who have lost the trail to more successful competitors who have gone ahead. For parliaments, when all is said and done, strive to make the best of the material in their hands; and that material is largely concerned with complex humanity, which no human power shall ever completely content.

Wherefore it is the clamourings of the wolves that is, as an empty noise, to be condemned as wholly unworthy of any peace-loving community that would prosper. It is they who are out to prey, and, dissatisfied, unscrupulous, hungry for spoil, they care neither for honour nor what they wreck to gain their gluttonous ends.

But if my wanderings far afield have taught me anything, it is that we each of us have in our own keeping a very precious possession that either brightens or slurs our environment. I refer to individual character, which is, after all, since units make the mass, the source that shall always decide the nature and ideals of society. Hence, be circumstances what they may, the individual character has it in its power to be a significant force in[275] the universe; so long as it is strong, and of sterling worthiness.

Wherefore, may it not be that the restlessness and dissatisfaction of modern life is in a minority of characters that are weak and lacking in manliness, and from that source are forthcoming the extremists whose insane attacks on all things as they exist destroy the confidence and tranquillity upon which all true progress flourishes?

There is no denying that there is a mean spirit abroad at the present time, a bad patch of inferior material, as it were; but I cannot believe it is anything more serious than that. And therein lies my faith that the simple meaning of civilisation shall one day be recovered, so that men may turn to their dictionaries again, and comprehend when they read that to civilise is:

My chief concern, however, in approaching this subject is to enter on some strange outside impressions of our country, come by in a curious way, in the hope that they may help to show that dissatisfaction with one’s lot is not always justified, and that it is usually possible to find others in circumstances worse than one’s own.

I thought I knew what was meant by poverty before I went to the Sahara (for my life had not been an easy one), but the Great Desert and its people taught me otherwise. Wherefore, when the[276] sudden transition came and I left behind that land of primitive people and ancient customs to regain the heart of civilisation, it was an experience that keyed up the senses to acute receptiveness and tremendous appreciation. Everything was a luxury; everything accepted with thankfulness, and one quarter of the most humble of the comforts that came my way would have filled me with equal content.

So may it be when the mind of man has learned humbleness from a background of desert that holds nothing.

But, if the sudden change of environment was full of incident in my case, it can be readily conceived that Ali’s and Sakari’s first view of civilisation was even more exciting, and filled them with astonishment and wonder.

The lifelong background, to them, was primitive Africa. Previous to joining the caravan they had both lived for many years in Kano, the great Hausa trade centre of Northern Nigeria, and one of the most remarkable native cities in the world. An environment of humble, low, mud-walled huts and narrow sandy lanes had always been theirs, and heat and flies and a dense population, with meagre sufficiency of food, their intimate atmosphere. To them luxury was unknown, and, not knowing it, they were happy. Indeed, Kano is a town of laughter, and its people healthy and content amid a humbleness and simplicity that is as yet unspoiled, and natural to them.

[277]The language familiar to Ali and Sakari is Hausa; though Arabic is the native tongue of the former. However, for the purpose in view, Hausa will not serve, and therefore, in endeavouring to give some of their impressions of this country as closely as possible, I will, in the main, have recourse to their Pidgin English. To give some idea of this curious and amusing African patois, I will, before proceeding to the main subject, cite some expressions that were familiar during the late expedition:

“This day I be black all over,” i.e. In a bad temper. (No reference to colour.)

“You make I find him for them place this morning; I find him, I no see him.”

[278]Sakari, having brought a local native to me who can mend a broken frying-pan:

“The mother what born him be mother for that man, too. Them all belong one mother.”

Sakari, when asked if he has properly killed a lizard before skinning it, chuckled and replied:

All through the expedition the natives had to crush their own grain into meal—always the woman’s task at home. One day I said to Sakari:

“Now you savvy how to beat them meal plenty fine you will be able to save your wife much work.”

“Oh no, sir! When I go catch Kano again I lose him sense plenty quick. I no be fool go tell my wife that.”

With two unsophisticated worthies like Ali and Sakari, fresh from the wilderness, I had to be prepared for anything when we landed in England. To say that they were excited and astonished would be putting it mildly indeed. They were amazed. In Hausa, when addressing me, or in pidgin English, when speaking to others, they expressed bewilderment of all they saw, and were as delighted as children on an eventful holiday. Everything was novel to them. Everything required explanation.

On the way up to town we had the first inkling of amusing incidents in store. The event was unexpected. The train suddenly rushed into a tunnel and simultaneously my natives, who surely thought the end had come, were stricken dumb with fear. When the train regained the daylight Sakari was sitting drawn up in a corner with big, frightened eyes, and he gasped:

On reaching London, quarters were found for Ali and Sakari in Gower Street. They were disappointed and almost alarmed when they learned that they could no longer camp beside me, and uneasy at the thought of being separated. Ali’s greatest concern was that he could no longer follow my footprints:

[280]“This no be Tenere [desert], Master! If you are lost, how I be fit go see your foot on these rocks?” (paved streets).

However, I assured them I would come and see them each day, and with that they had to be content.

During the forenoon of the next day I saw them again. Both complained of stiff necks.

“Yesterday we go walk and walk, and all time we go look for top them high house; O Master, they be plenty fine past house of Kano. Them house tall plenty, plenty; but to-day neck be sick. Only way man fit go look for up proper be for him lie down on road [street] same same as when sleep for camp.”

The endless streets lined with innumerable houses were further source of wonderment. On one occasion, after walking for an hour or so through a maze of closely built thoroughfares, they came out into Regent’s Park to exclaim:

“Ah! now we go look the desert of London; this ground no have house for him.”

In the streets they expressed surprise that everyone ate indoors and that no one was seen sitting down to food by the side of the open thoroughfare, as was common enough in their own country.

The huge population of the metropolis also came in for much comment, and they speedily realised that there were more people in London than in the whole of Kano emirate.

“There be plenty plenty people for this town who all be different, and who sit and say nothing.”

This I could not comprehend, until slowly it dawned on me that he was referring to the monuments of London—“The people who sit and say nothing.”

While on the subject of monuments, the first silver currency in Nigeria had the head of Queen Victoria on the one side, and hence the shilling became widely known among the Hausa natives as Silli mai mammie (the shilling that has the mother). One day, when passing Buckingham Palace, Ali and Sakari came in view of the monument of Queen Victoria. At once they recognised the head, and excitedly pointed and exclaimed:

I doubt if anyone could have guessed what would be the three very first things to strike deeply upon the imaginations of Ali and Sakari when they first entered London.

“Magic men, who, when they go put up hand, they fit go stop all the people.”

Babies in perambulators were remarkable because[282] of the novelty of seeing infants carefully wheeled “in small motor-car” with a nurse in attendance, for in their own country their youngsters are carried on the backs of the womenfolk, or more or less left to take their chance of life by the hut doors.

Of all they saw, then and thereafter, Ali and Sakari frankly concluded, times without number:

“Ki! White men go catch plenty plenty sense! All savvy work plenty fine. They be kings of work—all!” “All the people go catch money for this country. It plenty sweet past our country.”

And these were impressions they eventually carried back to spread far afield. And in this way, all unbeknown, the character of a nation may sometimes go forth broadcast before the world.

From London, Ali and Sakari accompanied me to my home in Scotland. They were made comfortable in an adjoining outhouse, and allotted a suitable place to make a camp-fire outdoors, where they delighted to sit and cook their meals in natural fashion.

Scotland does not lack for water. The river Tay, flowing near the house, was a feast indeed for eyes that well knew the drawbacks of an arid land, and the dreadful thirst of the desert. And the two natives were content to sit for hours, lost in contemplation of the swiftly flowing perpetual water[283] that would represent unbounded prosperity if only it could be transported to their own land.

But this worship of water had its drawbacks when Ali made the gleeful discovery that all he had to do to get water in the house was to turn on a tap. Thereafter we caught him, repeatedly, standing wrapt before the scullery sink with taps full on watching to see:

When it rained thoughts always veered to the Sahara, and more than once Ali remarked:

“Allah send plenty rain for this country, and so He go forget the desert all the time.

During the first morning at home I took the two natives on to the golf-course. For a little time they walked, feeling the closely knit turf under their feet, then they dropped to their knees and ran their hands over the grass, looking about them with delight.

“Ki! All be grass, master! All the ground find him plenty good. The eye sees not sand anywhere; not even between the blades.”

“In the desert this be all sand for sure, and no grass. So, so, all time Allah give plenty good things for this country.”

On another occasion I took them out to look on while ferreting rabbits. I had also my retriever with me. When the first rabbit was shot,[284] however, there was no need to send the dog to fetch it, for there was a wild scramble on the part of both the boys, who reached the “bunny” together, and straightway proceeded to cut its throat in true Mohammedan fashion. A second rabbit was treated in the same way, and then the two worthies were quite ready to set off home.

Half an hour later, while the rabbits were still warm, I found my followers beside their camp-fires in the yard with their prizes skinned and pierced on sticks, roasting before the blaze. This was their idea of a real feast of fresh meat, and the first they had had an opportunity of enjoying to the full since they had landed in the country.

But they were never difficult to please with food, and their usual dish, eaten twice a day, about 11 a.m. and again in the evening, consisted usually of butcher meat mixed with rice, potatoes, cloves, nutmeg, and plenty of olive oil. This strangely seasoned mixture was of their own choosing and was:

My wife tried to induce them to eat with knives and forks, but they were much more at home with their fingers.

Sheep are the choice animals for ceremonial sacrifice in their own land. Hence they cast longing eyes on the black-faced variety that pastured on the hills near my home, and kept asking me to kill one for them for Sadaka (almsgiving); and so that they might take the skin to Nigeria:

[285]“To show all the people for Kano the plenty fine hair [wool] that live for Rago [sheep] in England.”

In their newly found domestic life, one of the greatest delights to Ali and Sakari was to possess a whole bar of Sunlight soap, and they were seized with a passion for washing themselves and their clothes whenever they obtained such luxury.

Thus, in endless ways, they slowly absorbed the atmosphere of their novel surroundings with artless, unsullied minds and constant good-humour. They saw things as they existed with innocent penetration and directness; and ever they came back to such remarks as:

“White man go catch plenty plenty sense; everybody catch plenty clothes; everybody catch plenty to eat. This no be desert; this country sweet past all country.”

“When we go give this big news of England to people for Kano we will have so much to tell that plenty people no fit go believe us.”

Wherefore, to prove that, at least, they had been in this country, they made an extraordinary request. This was to remove two perfectly good teeth from their heads and have gold ones inserted, so that:

“When we go for Kano and people no fit believe we go look this country, we say, ‘Ah! ah! you be fool man. Look them Gold Teeth!’ And so they will be convinced; for our people no savvy them sense for put gold for head.”

[286]Their request, which was a persistent one, was finally granted, and Ali and Sakari became the proud possessors of “gold for head.”

Ali had, then, only one great ambition left: to some day make the pilgrimage to Mecca, which is the dream of so many true Mohammedans:

“They be different, sir! Some get £15; some get £10; some get £6 to £7. If buy him so, all the time he be my own.”

“But I no look for front [forward] too much, Master! for it will be like the Tenere [desert] when you are gone.”

They were faithful, able men, and when the parting came it was one of deep regret, filled with distressing artless emotion on the part of Ali and Sakari; which revealed the wonderful fidelity of these two fine henchmen of the Open Road, who had stuck with the expedition through thick and thin.

And it may be a fitting finish to give Ali’s description of the desert that we had left behind.

“Gentle people, I salute you! I give you news[287] of the desert. It is a land of sand and wind and want. If you would visit it? tighten your belt plenty, as a giant. There is no lying down in comfort, for there is no medicine for the Sun by day, nor for the Great Winds by night. There is never plenty food, and if water is not found, then one dies—that is the desert!

“All my people ’fraid of that Sahara country, and plenty plenty people say we no fit go, because robber people, no food, no water, no sticks for fire, and all that.

“Only strong man fit go walka that country, and some strong men begin to die after we go start.

“Plenty people tell master he go die, but master only say: ‘All right, he go all same.’

“After I go look them desert, I think I no go live to see England. But Allah is kind! and I have looked on this country, which be plenty plenty fine—and I go my way in content.”

[291]APPENDIX I

[295]APPENDIX II

[297]INDEX

The Author of this Book,

Captain ANGUS BUCHANAN, M.C., F.R.S.G.S.

has written three other books in which those who have enjoyed ‘Sahara’ will be interested.

EXPLORATION OF AÏR

OUT OF THE WORLD NORTH
OF NIGERIA

With Numerous Photographs by
the Author and a Map. 16s. net.

‘This graphic record of his travel and adventures will interest a public far larger than the purely scientific one anxious to learn of new discoveries.’—The Times.

‘Mr. Buchanan’s style is vivid and his narrative racy; he touches but lightly on the hardships he had to endure in this arid section of the African continent.’—Nature.

‘Captain Buchanan is one of those travellers who can write, and he has produced a capital book about his experiences, illustrated by a number of good photographs.’—The Outlook.

‘This is one of the best traveller’s books which has been published lately. It derives its interest both from the places through which Captain Buchanan travelled, and from the way in which he describes them. He has the gift of a perfectly individual and natural style, which allows him to draw vivid pictures of men, animals, and scenery.’—New Statesman.

‘Captain Angus Buchanan, M.C., describes the country of the Tuaregs with charm and clarity, and illustrates the book with his own photographs.’—The Graphic.

‘The book before us contains a great deal of information, put forward with remarkable clearness. . . . The descriptions of the appearance and habits of these various animals is always vividly put. . . . The whole narrative is “alive,” in addition to being, as has been said, a valuable contribution to geography, ethnology, and natural history.’—The Shooting Times.

‘We recommend this book to all who are interested in stories of travel. It is a straightforward account of a difficult and solitary undertaking perseveringly carried out—and it is not only because Captain Buchanan tells us that he and his camels travelled for over 1,400 miles, that we are left with a vivid sense of the vast distances and boundless empty spaces of the Sahara.’—The Near East.

JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, LONDON, W.I

By Captain Angus Buchanan, M.C., F.R.S.G.S.

WILD LIFE IN CANADA

Numerous Photographs by the Author.
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THREE YEARS OF WAR IN
EAST AFRICA

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Numerous Photographs by the Author.
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‘A book which is singularly attractive and “African” all over. . . . His narrative is essentially the story of three years’ soldiering in Central Africa by a lover of the wild, a traveller in many lands, a naturalist and sportsman.’—The Times.

‘Captain Buchanan’s valuable book. . . . It is of great human interest as a record of the admirable work done by the author’s battalion.’—The Spectator.

‘Wonderfully interesting—the author gives thrilling accounts of the fighting, but the story is more that of a man possessing the spirit of adventure, an explorer of the wild, a lover of nature, and a sportsman.’—Naval and Military Record.

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FOOTNOTES

[1]Month.

[2]Hyenas.

[3]Hausa for “lion.”

[4]Branded.

[5]It is possible, even probable, that, to some extent, better conditions of vegetation and rain prevailed, at one time, throughout the whole Sahara.

[6]Tamascheq: The Tuareg Language.

[7]Out of the World North of Nigeria, p. 167.

[8]All the above plants are named in Tamascheq—the Tuareg language.

[9]They are a recognised white race, akin to some of the oldest European stocks.

[10]When at leisure the Tuareg wears his gown to the ankles.

[11]An extremely interesting geographical observation, for no watercourse exists along that line to-day; which suggests further evidence of physical change and decay in the Sahara.

[12]Another observation of particular interest. Wells, at places, are all that remain along that line of territory at the present time.

[13]The natron is found at Arrighi, about ten hours’ journey north of Bilma.

[14]Usually each camel carries away four cones; the maximum load is six cones.

[15]I have, so far, failed to elucidate their origin to my entire satisfaction.

[16]Raid described in Out of the World North of Nigeria.

[17]There are times when fuel is one of the most important items that a caravan must carry.

[18]Some time later there was a raid some distance away, and my Tuaregs swore that our brief visitors were concerned in it; but by that time we were too far off for me to make sure that there was a definite reason for connecting the two occurrences.

[19]For scientific names of all species see Appendix I. M. signifies migrant. B. signifies new subspecies.

[20]For scientific names of all species see Appendix II. (A) signifies New Species. (B) signifies New Subspecies.

[21]This death is referred to in Chapter III.

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CHAPTER I
Preparations	1
CHAPTER II
The Caravan	9
An Explanation	29
CHAPTER III
A Ship of the Desert	31
CHAPTER IV
The Great South Road	45
CHAPTER V
The Taralum	69
CHAPTER VI
A City of Shadows	98
CHAPTER VII
Salt of the Earth	109
CHAPTER VIII
The People of the Veil	129
[xii]CHAPTER IX
The Hand of Doom	155
CHAPTER X
Servitude	188
CHAPTER XI
Strange Camp-fires	197
CHAPTER XII
Feathers, and the Places they frequent	215
CHAPTER XIII
Mammals of the Sahara	285
CHAPTER XIV
The North Star	255
CHAPTER XV
Civilisation	271
APPENDIX I
Scientific Nomenclature of Saharan Bird Life	291
APPENDIX II
Scientific Nomenclature of Saharan Animal Life	295
Index	297

“Awena”	=“Wall-eyed, or piebald-eyed.”
“Banri”	=“The one-eyed one.”
“Alletat”	=“White Belly.”
“Aberok”	=“The dark grey one.”
“Kadede”	=“The thin one.”
“Adignas”	=“The white one.”
“Terfurfus”	=“The piebald female.” (A female, because of the T prefixed before the name, which designates sex in the Tamascheq language of the Tuareg nomads of the Sahara).
“Korurimi”	=“The earless one” (because ears damaged).
“Tabzow”	=“The white one, but not quite white.”
“Emuscha”	=“The white-mouthed one.”
“Owrak”	=“The pale fawn male.” (A male designated because there is no T.)
“Towrak”	=“The pale fawn female.” (A female designated because of the T that is prefixed.)
“Ezarif”	=“The pale grey male.” (T omitted denotes sex.)
“Tezarif”	=“The pale grey female.”
“Mizobe”	=“The broken-nosed one.” (So named because he has a piece out of one nostril where a rein-ring has been torn away.)
“Buzak”	=“The white-footed one.”
“Ajemelel”	=“The spotted one.”
“Kelbado”	=“Big Belly.”
“Doki”	=“The Horse.” (Because a very diminutive camel, about the size of a horse.)
“Bako”	=so named, in hausa, before it came into my possession.
“Feri n’Gashi”	=“White feather.” My riding camel.

(1)[6]	“Tenere” (Tamascheq [6])	=Absolute sandy desert.[6]
	“Arummila” (Arabic)	=Absolute sandy desert.[6]
(2)	“Adjadi” or “Igidi” (Tamascheq)	=Regions of permanent sand-dunes, sometimes barren, sometimes with scattered vegetation.
	“Erg” (Arabic)
(3)	“Tanezrouft” (Tamascheq)	=Regions where the sand is hard and interspersed with plains of pebbles. Sometimes great gravel plains as barren as sand desert and hence often called Black Desert by the Tuaregs.
	“Reg” (Arabic)
(4)	“Tassili” (Tamascheq)	=Regions of chiefly horizontal, rough, rocky, much crevassed ground, often of shelf rock, where decomposition is very rapid and outcrops much cracked and broken apart. The ground surface, or plateau surface, is usually as barren as sand desert, but in deep ravines in such country there is often a sparse growth of vegetation.
	“Elkideà” (Arabic)

Latitude 15°	1,525 feet (north of Tanout)
	1,800 feet (Tanout).
„ 18°	1,000 feet (desert west of Aïr)
	1,600 feet (desert east of Aïr)
	1,220 feet (Bilma Oasis. Longitude 13°)
„ 20°	1,500 feet (Gara Tindi)
	1,350 feet (In-Azaoua)
„ 22°	3,100 feet (Zazir)	⎫ ⎬ ⎭	Land rising to the Ahaggar Mountains.
	3,700 feet (Tenacurt)
	4,200 feet (Tamanrasset)
„ 30°	350 feet (Hassi Inifel)		Land that falls gradually away to a low basin in the El Erg region between the Ahaggar and Atlas Mountains.
	600 feet (Messedli)

1.	Guinea Fowl.
2.	Common Quail (M).
3.	Coot (M).
4.	Large and small Long-tailed Senegal Sandgrouse.
5.	Coronated Sandgrouse.
6.	Lichtenstein’s Barred Sandgrouse.
7.	Nubian Bustard.
8.	Arab Bustard.
9.	Tern (M).
10.	Stilt (M).
11.	Wood Sandpiper (M).
12.	Common Sandpiper (M).
13.	Ruff and Reeve (M).
14.	Snipe (M).
15.	Stone Curlew.
16.	Green Sandpiper (M).
17.	Spurwing Plover.
18.	Cream-coloured Cursor.
19.	Palm Dove.
20.	Red-eyed Grey Dove.
21.	Turtle Dove.
22.	Cape Dove.
23.	Blue Rock Pigeon.
24.	Shoveller (M).
25.	Pintail (M).
26.	Common Teal (M).
27.	Garganey Teal (M).
28.	Tree Duck (M).
29.	Great Billed Goose (M).
30.	Egyptian Goose (M).
31.	Night Heron (M).
32.	Purple Heron (M).
33.	Bittern.
34.	Black and White Stork.
35.	Glossy Ibis.
36.	Carrion Vulture.
37.	White Vulture.
38.	Griffon Vulture.
39.	White-breasted Eagle.
40.	Egyptian Kite.
41.	Pallid Hen Harrier (M).
42.	Singing Hawk.
43.	Peregrine Falcon.
44.	Kestrel.
45.	Barn Owl
46.	African Long-eared Owl.
47.	Eagle Owl.
48.	Scops Owl (M).
49.	Long-eared Grey Owl.
50.	Asben Little Owl (B).
51.	Black and White Crested Cuckoo.
52.	Golden Cuckoo.
53.	Red-billed Hornbill.
54.	Greater Saharan Woodpecker.
55.	Lesser Saharan Woodpecker.
56.	African Roller.
57.	African Hoopoe.
[231]58.	European Hoopoe (M).
59.	Wood Hoopoe (B).
60.	Black-capped Blue Bee Eater.
61.	Green Bee-Eater.
62.	Blue Naped Crested Coly.
63.	Goldcrest Barbet.
64.	Yellow-breasted Barbet.
65.	Red-headed Barbet (B).
66.	Golden Nightjar (B).
67.	European Nightjar (M).
68.	Brown Nightjar and Pennant Winged Nightjar.
69.	White-rumped Swift.
70.	European Swift (M).
71.	Pallid Swift.
72.	Red-rumped African Swallow.
73.	European Swallow (N).
74.	Saharan Rock Martin (B).
75.	Redstart (M).
76.	Common Wheatear (M).
77.	Desert Wheatear.
78.	Black Wheatear.
79.	Saharan Rock Chat (B).
80.	Whinchat (M).
81.	Rock Thrush (M).
82.	Black Thicket Babbler.
83.	Brown Bush Babbler (B).
84.	Rufous Warbler.
85.	Reiser’s Pallid Warbler.
86.	Icterine Warbler (M).
87.	Chestnut-breasted Grey Warbler.
88.	Common Whitethroat (M).
89.	Orphean Warbler (M).
90.	Chiff-chaff (M).
91.	Willow Wren (M).
92.	Crowned Grass Warbler.
93.	Alexander’s Scrub Warbler.
94.	Short-tailed Buff-breasted Warbler.
95.	Yellow-breasted Sunbird.
96.	Dark Green Sunbird (B).
97.	Sudanese Penduline Tit.
98.	Puff-backed Flycatcher.
99.	Spotted Flycatcher (M).
100.	Pied Flycatcher (M).
101.	Collared Flycatcher (M).
102.	Grey Shrike.
103.	Red-headed Shrike (M).
104.	Small Chestnut Striped Shrike.
105.	Yellow Wagtail (M).
106.	White Wagtail (M).
107.	Asben Brown Pipit (B).
108.	European Tawny Pipit (M).
109.	European Tree Pipit (M).
110.	Red-throated Pipit (M).
111.	Great Curve-billed Desert Lark.
112.	Mirafra Short-toed Lark.
113.	Buff Saharan Lark (B one group).
114.	Crested Lark.
115.	Bar-tailed Desert Lark.
116.	Small Thick-billed Lark.
117.	Eastern Short-toed Lark(M).
118.	Chestnut Black-breasted Lark.
119.	Grey Black-breasted Lark.
120.	Striolated Bunting.
121.	Desert Sparrow.
122.	Chestnut-backed Yellow Sparrow.
123.	Grey Serin Finch.
124.	Trumpeter Bullfinch.
125.	Pencil-crowned Weaver (B).
126.	Lesser Yellow Weaver.
127.	Greater Yellow Weaver.
128.	Singing Finch.
[232]129.	Senegal Waxbill.
130.	Rufous-breasted Starling.
131.	Wing-spotted Glossy Starling.
132.	Pied Crow.
133.	Desert Raven.
134.	Short-tailed Raven.