three walked up the wadi along its bank.
The direction they were now following made it impossible for them to see the dark mass of the fort through the thick foliage, for the oasis of Gabès is really only a very large palm grove.
Ahmet walked along the path confidently and unerringly. First they would have to pass through Djara, which lies on both sides of the wadi. In this formerly fortified village, which had been in turn Carthaginian, Roman, Byzantine, and Arab, was located the main market of Gabès. At this hour it would still be crowded with people, and Djemma and her son might have some difficulty getting through unnoticed. On the other hand, the streets of these Tunisian oases were not yet lighted by electricity or even by gas. So, except in the vicinity of a few cafés, they would be shrouded in darkness.
Nevertheless, Ahmet was very cautious and circumspect, and he continually reminded Sohar that they could not be too careful. There was a possibility that the prisoner’s mother might be known in Gabès, and that her presence might lead to increased vigilance around the fort. Although planned far in advance, carrying out this escape would be difficult, and it was important that nothing arouse the guards’ suspicions. For this reason, Ahmet chose to follow roads leading to the area adjacent to the bordj.
Further, there was a great deal of activity in the central part of the oasis as this Sunday evening was drawing to a close. In Africa, as in Europe, the last day of the week is usually a holiday in garrison towns, and especially in French garrison towns. The soldiers are given leave, sit around in the cafés, and return to their barracks late at night. The local inhabitants take part in the general hustle and bustle, especially around the bazaar with its mixture of Italian and Jewish merchants. And this hubbub goes on far into the night.
It was possible, then, that Djemma might not be unknown to the authorities in Gabès. Indeed, since her son’s arrest, she had ventured near the bordj more than once, risking her liberty and perhaps even her life. It was well known that she had had a strong influence on Hadjar, the maternal influence being so strong among the Tuareg people. Since she had urged him to revolt, she was quite capable of touching off another rebellion, either to free the prisoner or to avenge him if the military council sent him to his death. Yes, there was every reason to fear that all the tribes would rise at her call and follow her in a holy war. All attempts to find and capture her had failed, as had the many expeditions sent out through this land of sebkha and chotts. With the protection of her devoted people, Djemma had escaped all attempts to put her in prison along with her son.
And yet, here she was in the middle of this oasis, with so many dangers threatening her. She had insisted on joining her comrades who had met in Gabès to carry out the escape plan. If Hadjar managed to elude his watchful guards and get outside the walls of the fort, he and his mother would go back along the road to the marabout. About a kilometer from there, in the densest part of a palm grove, the fugitive would find horses on which to make good his escape. He would be free again, and—who knows?—perhaps make another attempt to lead an uprising against French rule.
Among the groups of Frenchmen and Arabs that they encountered from time to time as they continued toward the bordj, no one had recognized Hadjar’s mother under the haik she was wearing. Moreover, Ahmet did his best to warn them when someone was coming, and all three crouched in some dark corner, behind an isolated hut, or under cover of the trees, and went on again after the passersby had gone.
Gabès, the European quarter and the native quarter. (Photos by Soler, Tunis)
They were no more than three or four steps from the meeting place when a Targui who seemed to be awaiting someone suddenly rushed up to them.
The street (or rather, the road) that angled off toward the bordj was deserted at this moment, and Djemma and her comrades had only to follow it for a few minutes and go up a narrow side street to reach the gourbi, or shack, that was their destination.
The man went straight up to Ahmet and held up his hand to stop them.
“Don’t go any farther,” he said.
“What’s the matter, Horeb?” asked Ahmet, who had recognized the newcomer as a member of his Tuareg tribe.
“Our comrades have left the gourbi.”
The old mother stopped, and in a voice filled with anxiety and anger she asked Horeb, “Do those Frenchie dogs suspect something?”
“No, Djemma,” he replied, “and neither do the guards at the bordj.”
“Then why aren’t our comrades still at the gourbi?”
“Because some soldiers on leave came and asked for something to drink, and we didn’t want to stay with them. One of them was Nicol, the cavalry sergeant. He knows you, Djemma.”
“Yes,” she muttered. “He saw me there, at our camp, when my son was captured by his captain. Ah! That captain! If I ever …”
And from her throat came a sound like the roar of a wild beast.
“Where will we find our comrades?” asked Ahmet.
“Come with me,” replied Horeb. Taking the lead, he slipped through a little palm grove and headed toward the fort.
This thicket was deserted at that hour and came to life only on the days when the main market in Gabès was open. There was every chance, then, that they would not meet anyone else between there and the fort, which of course would be impossible to enter. The fact that members of the garrison had been granted Sunday leave was no reason to assume that there would be no one on sentry duty.
In fact, security would be all the tighter while the rebel Hadjar was a prisoner in the fort and until he had been transferred to the cruiser and handed over to military justice.
Walking under cover of the trees, the little group came to the edge of the palm grove.
There was a cluster of some twenty huts at that spot, and a few beams of light were filtering through their narrow openings. The rendezvous point was now no more than a gunshot away.
But hardly had Horeb started along a winding little street when the sound of footsteps and voices made him stop. A dozen soldiers—spahis—were coming toward them, singing and shouting under the influence of the libations of which they had been partaking, too freely perhaps, in the nearby cabarets.
Ahmet thought it best to avoid meeting them, and drew back with the others into a dark recess near the French-Arab school to let them go past.
There was a well there, with a wooden framework over it to hold the winch that raised and lowered the bucket.
In an instant they had all taken refuge behind the coping of the well, which was high enough to hide them completely.
The soldiers kept coming on, then stopped, and one of them shouted, “My God, I’m thirsty.”
“Have a drink, then. There’s a well here,” said Sergeant Nicol.
“What? Water, Sergeant?” exclaimed Corporal Pistache.
“Pray to Mohammed. Perhaps he’ll turn the water into wine.”
“Ah! If I could be sure of that!”
“You’d convert to
