LITMIR.BIZ

       Arab homes in Gabès. (Photo by Soler, Tunis)

      However, it was important that the Tuareg chieftan be set free before the arrival of the cruiser that would carry him away. And that vessel, which had been seen passing Cap Bon, was now about to drop anchor in the Gulf of Gabès. Hence the necessity for Harrig to get out of the bordj in time to coordinate his activities with those of his friends. The escape had to be carried out that very night. Once morning dawned, it would be too late. By sunrise Hadjar would have been taken aboard the Chanzy, and it would no longer be possible to wrest him from the hands of the military authorities.

      This is where the bazaar merchant played his role. He knew the head guard of the military prison. The light sentence imposed on Harrig for his part in the street brawl had been served the previous day, but his companions were still waiting impatiently for him to be released. It was unlikely that his sentence had been extended for breaking some prison regulation, but it was nevertheless urgent that they know how things stood, and above all to make sure that Harrig would be released before nightfall.

      The merchant decided to go and see the guard, who often relaxed at his café during his free time. That evening he set out for the fort.

      Approaching the guard in this way, which might have aroused suspicion after the escape, proved to be unnecessary. As the merchant drew near the rear gate, he met a man in the street.

      It was Harrig, and he recognized the Levantine. Since they were alone on the path leading down from the bordj, there was no danger of their being seen or overheard, let alone spied on or followed. Harrig was not an escaped convict, but a prisoner who had served his sentence and been released.

      “What news of Hadjar?” was the merchant’s first question.

      “He’s been told,” replied Harrig.

      “Tonight?”

      “Tonight. And Sohar, and Ahmet, and Horeb?”

      “They’re waiting for you.”

      Ten minutes later Harrig was with his comrades in the lower room of the café. As an extra precaution, one of them stayed outside to keep an eye on the road.

      Less than an hour later, the old Tuareg woman and her son, with Horeb as their guide, entered the café. Harrig briefed them on the situation.

      During his few days in prison, Harrig had spoken with Hadjar. There was nothing suspicious about two Tuareg, confined in the same prison, talking together. In any case, the Tuareg chieftain was to be sent off to Tunis shortly, while Harrig would soon be released.

      Sohar was the first to question Harrig after Djemma and her companions had reached the merchant’s café.

      “What news of my brother?”

      “And my son?” added the old woman.

      “Hadjar is aware of the situation,” replied Harrig. “Just as I was leaving the bordj, we heard the Chanzy fire her cannon. Hadjar knows he’ll be taken aboard tomorrow morning, and he’ll try to escape tonight.”

      “If he put it off for twelve hours,” said Ahmet, “he’d be too late.”

      “What if he doesn’t make it?” whispered Djemma.

      “He’ll make it, with our help,” Harrig replied quickly.

      “But how?” asked Sohar.

      Harrig explained.

      The cell where Hadjar spent his nights was in a part of the fort facing the sea, so close that the water of the gulf lapped at its base. Adjoining this cell was a narrow courtyard, accessible to the prisoner, but surrounded by high, impassable walls.

      In one corner of the courtyard was an opening, a sort of drain, leading to the outside and blocked by a metal grating. The other end of the drain was about a dozen feet above sea level.

      Hadjar had noticed that the grating was in poor condition and that its bars were rusting from the effect of the salt air. It would not be difficult to pry it loose during the night and crawl through to the outside.

      But how could Hadjar make good his escape after that? If he dropped into the sea, would he be able to swim around the edge of the fort to the nearest beach? Was he young and strong enough to take his chances with the powerful gulf currents running out to sea?

      The Tuareg chieftain was not yet forty years old. He was a tall man, white-skinned, but tanned by the fiery African sun, lean, strong, accustomed to all forms of physical exertion. Given the general sobriety of his race, whose diet of grain, figs, dates, and dairy products kept them strong and hardy, he would be in good health for many years to come.

      It was no accident that Hadjar had acquired a strong influence over the nomadic Tuareg of the Touat and Sahara, who were now confined to the chott region of southern Tunisia. He was as daring as he was intelligent. He had inherited these qualities from his mother, as do all the Tuareg, who trace their ancestry through the maternal line. They regard women as equal, if not superior, to men. In fact, a man whose father was a slave and whose mother was of noble lineage would himself be considered a noble. The opposite never occurs. Djemma’s sons had inherited all her energy, and had remained close to her since the death

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