“A little. Oh Peter, I am so frightened . . .”
“Stay strong, Catherine. Henri is here, somewhere. He may be in a box too. He came to search for you. We all did. Just stay strong. We’ll all get out of this.”
The sound of a scuffle, then a crate being shut, was followed by German-tinged English very close to the crate. “Oh yes, Lieutenant Wake. You will all get out of your boxes when you reach your new home. I hope you enjoy the journey.” The tone lowered to almost a hush, the humor in it brutally sinister. “I must say thank you. Your new master in Mali paid a lot of money for you, double what it was before you passed the test.”
Wake slumped against the side of the crate, strength draining away with the realization of Falah’s meaning when he had said his value has risen. Rork let out a long breath.
“Oh sweet Jesus, sir. We’re bound for the middle of Africa as slaves.”
40
ShayTaan Taalib
A sharp pain cut across Wake’s back as he crashed against the side of the crate. He opened his eyes to jarring light, gradually taking in the scene around him. The wagon was still jumbling over the rough roads as it had been for hours, but now there were shafts of sunlight through the slats, proving to him it wasn’t some horrid nightmare. It was all too real.
They were in some type of animal crate. Wake guessed it was for goats by the layer of feces in the straw. They were both still bound behind their backs, hands swollen and dark red, with bruises everywhere. Rork had a gash above a closed right eye, matted blood covering half his face. They went over another rock and Wake bounced his head into the splintery wood above, swearing and rousing the bosun slumped in the corner.
Rork leaned up, his lopsided grin looking idiotic with the mangled face. “Pretty bit o’ a mess, ain’t it, sir? Even the bloody English wouldn’t do this to a poor Irishman. Of course, there was that time—”
“Sean, you’re cut bad over the eye, but it looks like the bleeding has stopped. Hurt anywhere else?”
“All over, sir, but that’s cause o’ this crate an’ these here lashin’s. No other cuts. Where are we?”
Unable to see forward, Wake peered out of the side and back slats to the flat brown terrain around them. They were on a track through shale rock desert. He counted at least three other wagons behind them, guessing that Catherine was in the last. He wondered where Sokhoor and Woodgerd were.
“I don’t know where we are, Sean, but let’s think this out. The air is still relatively cool and the sun is low, so I think it’s morning, maybe around nine or so.”
“Sun’s on our bow, sir, so we’re headin’ east.”
“Right. And we’re moving at maybe two or three knots. It was around nine o’clock yesterday evening when they got us. They kept us for about two hours, then got under way in these damn carts, so that means we’ve been going for ten hours, more or less. Made maybe twenty miles, maybe more, but probably only twenty when you count in the slow traffic in the city. I remember a lot of stops and starts when we first started out. So we’re twenty miles east of Marrakech and heading further east.”
“Aye, sir. So what’s out east o’ Marrakech?”
“Well, let me remember the map I saw in Rabat. There’re some mountains that divide the desert about fifty miles away. I think Berbers live there. Beyond them to the east is nothing but wasteland—the main Sahara—for two thousand miles to Egypt. Mali is a thousand miles to the southeast.”
“Wait a minute, sir. I thought we were in the Sahara already an’ that’s where the Blue Men live—an’ also those bastards what captured Miss Catherine and the missionary people.”
“We were in the Sahara, but just on the edge of it.”
Rork let out a gasping whistle. “Sweet Mary, mother of Jesus, if that journey we already made afore Marrakech was jes’ a wee bit o’ the friggin’ desert, than this ol’ bosun wants no part o’ the main affair. I venture it’s time to end this, sir. Now.”
“I’m for that, Sean. We need to get out of this while we’re still near Marrakech. It’s the last city for a thousand miles east or south. Now, how to we get these bindings off?”
Rork fell over when the wagon lurched, grimacing in pain when his head hit the side and started bleeding again. He sat up and looked at Wake from his left eye.
“Aye, that’s it, sir. These boards are rough-hewn, with plenty o’ sharp splinters. We use ’em to cut this here old hemp. Jes’ hold the lashin’ against the splinter an’ let the bouncin’ o’ the cart do the work, sir.”
“Damn, Sean, that just might work.”
It did work, but it took hours, until the sun had reached its zenith and the fetid reek of the crate’s prior inhabitants was gagging them both. Amid shouts of orders and threats to the prisoners—Wake still couldn’t think of himself as a slave—the wagons had halted to feed and water the horses from skinbags and bales piled atop the crates. A wooden cup of filthy water was carefully wedged between the slats into the crate. Wake saw the man was an Arab wearing faded blue. The Senegalese were no longer around.
“My hand’s free,” uttered Rork as he fell back in exhaustion. “Oh, God, that feels good,” he said rubbing his wrists while he lay on the floor of the crate.
Wake was still trying to saw through his own rope. “I think I’m almost through it.”
Rork crawled over and fiddled with Wake’s binding. Blood was coagulated all over the bosun’s face and he looked and smelled awful, but Wake loved him when he heard Rork say, “There, it’s . . . cut through. You’re a free man, sir!”
Wake let out
