had seen nothing suspicious nearby, and the silence was broken only by the plaintive song of a few pairs of bouhabibi, or Djerid sparrows, flitting about near the dunes.
Djemma and Sohar went back into the marabout to wait for nightfall, when they would be able to reach Gabès without attracting attention.
The conversation continued.
“Has the ship left La Goulette?”
“Yes, mother. It rounded Cap Bon this morning. It’s the cruiser Chanzy.”
“Will it get here tonight?”
“Yes, unless it puts in at Sfax. But it will more likely come and anchor off Gabès, where your son—my brother—will be taken aboard.”
“Hadjar, Hadjar,” murmured the old woman.
Shaking violently with anger and grief, she cried out, “My son, my son! Those foreigners will kill him, and I’ll never see him again. And he’ll no longer be here to lead the Tuareg in our holy war. No, no, Allah will not allow this to happen!”
“No, no, Allah will not allow this to happen!”
As if exhausted by this outburst, Djemma dropped to her knees in a corner of the small room and fell silent.
Sohar had come back and taken up his position at the door, leaning against its frame. He was as still as if he had been made of stone, like one of those statues that sometimes decorate the entrance to a marabout. Not a sound disturbed his immobility. The shadows of the dunes gradually lengthened eastward, as the sun sank lower on the western horizon. To the east of the Gulf of Gabès the first stars were coming out. The slender crescent of the lunar disk, at the beginning of its first quarter, had just slipped behind the last mists of sunset. It would be a calm night, and dark, too, for a curtain of light vapor would hide the stars.
A little after seven, Sohar went back to his mother. “It’s time,” he said.
“Yes,” replied Djemma, “and it’s time for Hadjar to be snatched from the hands of those foreigners. He must be out of Gabès prison before sunrise. Tomorrow it will be too late.”
“Everything is ready, mother,” replied Sohar. “Our comrades are waiting for us. Those in Gabès have planned the escape. Those in the Djerid will act as Hadjar’s escort, and before another day dawns they’ll be far away in the desert.”
“And I’ll be with them,” declared Djemma. “I won’t abandon my son.”
“And I’ll be with you too,” added Sohar. “I won’t abandon my brother—or my mother.”
Djemma drew him to her and held him close in her arms. Then, adjusting the hood of her haik, she went out.
On their way to Gabès, Sohar walked a few steps ahead of his mother. Instead of following the shoreline, along the swath of sea plants left on the beach by the receding tide, they followed the base of the dunes, where they hoped to cover the kilometer and a half with less likelihood of being seen. The clump of trees at the oasis, almost lost in the deepening gloom, could be seen only vaguely. Not a light shone through the darkness. In those windowless Arab houses, only the inner courtyards receive any daylight, and after nightfall no light escapes from them.
Soon, however, a point of light appeared above the dim silhouette of the town. It was fairly intense, and must have come from the upper part of Gabès, perhaps from the minaret of a mosque, perhaps from the castle that overlooked the town.
But Sohar knew it was coming from the fort. Pointing to the light, he whispered, “The bordj (the fort).”4
“Is that the place, Sohar?”
“Yes, mother. That’s where they’ve confined him.”
The old woman had stopped. It seemed as if the light had established some kind of communication between her and her son. Perhaps it did not come from the very cell where Hadjar was imprisoned, but it certainly came from the fort to which he had been taken. Djemma had not seen her son since the fearsome leader had fallen into the hands of French soldiers, and she would never see him again unless he escaped that very night from the fate that military justice had in store for him. She stood on the spot as if transfixed, and Sohar had to urge her twice, “Come on, mother. Come on.”
They went on their way, along the base of the dunes, which curved around toward the oasis of Gabès with its cluster of villages and houses, the largest settlement on the shore of the gulf. Sohar headed for the part that the soldiers called Coquinville, or Roguetown, a collection of wooden huts inhabited by bazaar merchants (hence its well-deserved name). The village was located near the entrance to the wadi, a stream that winds this way and that through the oasis, in the shade of the palm trees. There stood the bordj, Fort Neuf, from which Hadjar would not emerge until the time came for him to be transferred to prison in Tunis.
It was from this fort that his comrades, after taking every precaution and making every preparation for escape, hoped to free him that night. They had gathered together in the huts of Coquinville, and were waiting for Djemma and her son. But extreme caution was called for, and it was better to avoid meeting anyone as they approached the village.
The wadi near Fort Neuf. (Photo by Lt. Rebut)
How anxiously they turned their eyes out to sea, fearful that the cruiser would arrive that evening and take the prisoner aboard before the escape could be carried out. They looked to see whether any white smoke was visible in the gulf, listening for the whinnying sound of a ship’s steam engine or the shrill wail of a siren which might mean a ship was coming in to dock. But they saw only the lights of the fishing boats reflected in the Tunisian waters, and no ship’s whistle rent the air.
It was not yet eight o’clock when Djemma and her son reached the bank of the wadi. Ten more minutes would bring them to the rendezvous point.
Just as they were about to start out along the right bank, a man, crouching behind the cactuses on the bank, half stood up and asked, “Sohar?”
“Is that you, Ahmet?”
“Yes. And your mother?”
“She’s right behind me.”
“And we’ll follow you,” said Djemma.
“Any news?” asked Sohar.
“Nothing,” replied Ahmet.
“Are our friends here?”
“They’re waiting for you.”
“Does anyone in the bordj suspect anything?”
“Not a soul.”
“Is Hadjar ready?”
“Yes.”
“How did they get to see him?”
“Through Harrig, who was released this morning. He’s with our comrades
