ortho spent that winter in morocco city, but in the spring was sent out with a force against the zoua arabs south of the figvig oasis, which had been taken by muley ismail and was precariously held by his descendants. they spent a lot of time and trouble dragging cannon up, to find them utterly useless when they got there. the enemy did not rely on strong places—they had none—but on mobility. they played a game of sting and run very exasperating to their opponents. it was like fighting a cloud of deadly mosquitoes. the wastage among the crown forces was alarming; two generals were recalled and strangled, and when ortho again saw the koutoubia minaret rising like a spear-shaft from the green palms of morocco it was after an absence of ten months.
ourida met him in transports of joy, a two-month baby in her arms. it was a son, the exact spit and image of him, she declared, a person of already incredible sagacity and ferocious strength. a few years and he too would be riding at the head of massed squadrons, bearing the green banner of the prophet.
ortho, burned black with saharan suns, weak with privation, sick of the reek of festering battlefields, contemplated the tiny pink creature he had brought into the world and swore in his heart that this boy of his should follow peaceful ways.
fighting men were, as a class, the salt of the earth, simple-hearted, courageous, dog-loyal, dupes of the cunning and the cowardly. but apart from the companionship he had no illusions concerning the profession of arms as practiced in the shereefian empire; it was one big bully maintaining himself in the name of god against a horde of lesser bullies (also invoking the deity) by methods that would be deemed undignified in a pot-house brawl. he was in it for the good reason that he could not get out; but no son of his should be caught in the trap if he could help it. however, he said nothing of this to ourida. he kissed her over and over and said the boy was magnificent and would doubtless make a fine soldier—but there was time to think about that.
he saw winter and summer through in morocco, with the exception of a short trip on the sultan’s bodyguard to mogador, which port mahomet had established to offset fractious agadir and taken under his special favor.
the sand-blown white town was built on the plans of an avignon engineer named cornut, with fortifications after the style of vauban. this gave it a pronounced european flavor which was emphasized by the number of foreign traders in its streets, drawn thither by the absence of custom. also there was the atlantic pounding on the island, a tang of brine in the air and a sea wind blowing. ortho had not seen the atlantic since he left sallee; homesickness gnawed at him.
he climbed the skala tower, and, sitting on a cannon cast for the third philippe in 1595, watched the sun westering in gold and crimson and dreamed of the owls’ house, the old owls’ house lapped in its secret valley, where a man could live his life out in fullness and peace—and his sons after him.
walking back through the town, he met with a bristol trader and turned into a wine shop. the englishman treated him to a bottle of jerez and the news of the world. black bad it was. the tight little island had her back to the wall, fighting for bare life against three powerful nations at once. the american colonists were in full rebellion to boot, india was a cock-pit, ireland sharpening pikes. general burgoyne had surrendered at saratoga. eliott was besieged in gibraltar. french, american and spanish warships were thick as herring in the channel; the bristolian had only slipped through them by sheer luck and would only get back by a miracle.
taxation at home was crippling, and every mother’s son who had one leg to go upon and one arm to haul with was being pressed for service; they were even emptying the jails into the navy. he congratulated ortho on being out of the country and harm’s way. ortho had had a wild idea of getting a letter written and taken home to eli by this man, but as he listened he reflected that it was no time now. also, if he wanted to be bought out he would have to give minute instructions as to where the smuggling money was hidden. letters were not inviolate; the bearer, and not eli, might find that hidden money. and then there was ourida and sa?d ii. sa?d would become acclimatized, but england and ourida were incompatible. he could not picture the ardent bedouin girl—her bangles, silks and exotic finery—in the gray north; she would shrivel up like a frost-bitten lotus, pine and die.
no, he was firmly anchored now. one couldn’t have everything; he had much. he drank up his wine, wished the bristolian luck with his venture and rode back to the diabat palace.
a week later he was home again in morocco.
added means had enabled him to furnish the bab ahmar house very comfortably, moorish fashion, with embroidered haitis on the walls, inlaid tables and plenty of well-cushioned lounges. the walls were thick; the rooms, though small, were high and airy; the oppressive heat of a haouz summer did not unduly penetrate. ourida bloomed, sa?d the younger progressed from strength to strength, waxing daily in fat and audacity. he was the idol of the odd-job boy and the two slave women (the household had increased with its master’s rank), of osman baki and ortho’s men. the latter brought him presents from time to time: fruit stolen from the aguedal, camels, lions and horses (chiefly horses) crudely carved and highly colored, and, when he was a year old, a small, shy monkey caught in the rif, and later an old eagle with clipped wings and talons which, the donor explained, would defend the little lord from snakes and such-like. concerning these living toys, sa?d ii. displayed a devouring curiosity and no fear at all. when the monkey clicked her teeth at him he gurgled and pulled her tail till she escaped up the wistaria. he pursued the eagle on all fours, caught it sleeping one afternoon, and hung doggedly on till he had pulled a tail feather out. the bird looked dangerous, sa?d ii. bubbled delightedly and grabbed for another feather, whereat the eagle retreated hastily to sulk among the orange shrubs. was the door left open for a minute, sa?d ii. was out of it on voyages of high adventure.
once he was arrested by the guard at the ahmar gate, plodding cheerfully on all fours for open country, and returned, kicking and raging, in the arms of a laughing petty officer.
ortho himself caught the youngster emerging through the postern onto the royal parade ground.
“he fears nothing,” ourida exulted. “he will be a great warrior and slay a thousand infidels—the sword of allah!—um-yum, my jewel.”
that battered soldier and turncoat infidel, his father, rubbed his chin uneasily. “m’yes . . . perhaps. time enough yet.”
but there was no gainsaying the fierce spirit of the arab mother, daughter of a hundred fighting sheiks; her will was stronger than his. the baby’s military education began at once. in the cool of the morning she brought sa?d ii. to the parade ground, perched him on the parapet of the dar-el-heni and taught him to clap his hands when the horse went by.
once she hoisted him to his father’s saddle bow. the fat creature twisted both hands in the black stallion’s mane and kicked the glossy neck with his heels, gurgling with joy.
“see, see,” said ourida, her eyes like stars for radiance. “he grips, he rides. he will carry the standard in his day zahrit.” the soldiers laughed and lifted their lances. “hail to the young kaid!”
ortho, gripping his infant son by the slack of his miniature jellab, felt sick. ourida and these other simple-minded fanatics would beat him yet with their fool ideas of glory, urge this crowing baby of his into hardship, terror, pain, possibly agonizing death.
parenthood was making a thoughtful man of him. he was no longer the restless adventurer of two years ago, looking on any change as better than none. he grudged every moment away from the bab ahmar, dreaded the spring campaign, the separation it would entail, the chance bullet that might make it eternal.
his ambition dimmed. he no longer wanted power and vast wealth, only enough to live comfortably on with ourida and young sa?d just as he was. promotion meant endless back-stair intrigues; he had no taste left for them and had other uses for the money and so fell out of the running.
a spanish woman in the royal harem, taking advantage of her temporary popularity with mahomet, worked her wretched little son into position over penhale’s head and over him went a fat moor, yakoub ben ahmed by name, advanced by the offices of a fair sister, also in the seraglio. neither of these heroes had more than a smattering of military lore and no battle experience whatever, but ortho did not greatly care. promotion might be rapid in the shereefian army, but degradation was apt to be instantaneous—the matter of a sword flash. he had risen as far as he could rise with moderate safety and there he would stop. security was his aim nowadays, a continuance of things as they were.
for life went by very happily in the little house by the bab ahmar, pivoting on sa?d ii. but in the evening, when that potential conqueror had ceased the pursuit of the monkey and eagle and lay locked in sleep, ourida would veil herself, wind her haik about her and go roaming into the city with ortho. she loved the latticed souks with their displays of silks, jewelry and leather work; the artificers with their long muskets, curved daggers, velvet scabbarded swords and pear-shaped powder flasks; the gorgeous horse-trappings at the saddlers’, but these could be best seen in broad daylight; in the evening there were other attractions.
it was the djeema-el-fna that drew her, that great, dusty, clamorous fair-ground of morocco where gather the story-tellers, acrobats and clowns; where feverish drums beat the sun down, assisted by the pipes of aissawa snake charmers and the jingling ouds and cymbals of the berber dancing boys; where the sultan hung out the heads of transgressors that they might grin sardonically upon the revels. ourida adored the djeema-el-fna. to the girl from the tent hamlet in the sahara it was life. she wept at the sad love stories, trembled at the snake charmers, shrieked at the crude buffoons, swayed in sympathy with the berber dancers, besought ortho for coin, and more coin, to reward the charming entertainers. she loved the varied crowds, the movement, the excitement, the din, but most of all she liked the heads. no evening on the djeema was complete unless she had inspected these grisly trophies of imperial power.
she said no word to ortho, but nevertheless he knew perfectly well what was in her mind; in her mind she saw young sa?d twenty years on, spattered with infidel blood, riding like a tornado, serving his enemies even as these.
ferocious—she was the ultimate expression of ferocity—but knowing no mean she was also ferocious in her love and loyalty; she would have given her life for husband or son gladly, rejoicing. such people are difficult to deal with. ortho sighed, but let her have her way.
often of an evening osman baki came to the house and they would sit in the court drinking malaga wine and yarning about old campaigns, while ourida played with the little ape and the old eagle watched for mice, pretending to be asleep.
osman talked well. he told of his boyhood’s home beside the bosporus, of constantinople, bagdad and damascus with its pearly domes bubbling out of vivid greenery. jerusalem, tunis and algiers he had seen also and now the moghreb, the “sunset land” of the first saracen invaders. one thing more he wanted to see and that was the himalayas. he had heard old soldiers talk of them—propping the heavens. he would fill his eyes with the himalayas and then go home to his garden in rumeli hissar and brood over his memories.
sometimes he would take the gounibri and sing the love lyrics of his namesake, or of nêdim, or “rose garden” songs he had picked up in persia which ourida thought delicious. and sometimes ortho trolled his green english ballads, also favorably received by her, simply because he sang them, for she did not understand their rhythm in the least. but more often they lounged, talking lazily, three very good friends together, osman sucking at the hookah, punctuating the long silences with shrewd comments on men and matters, ortho lying at his ease watching the brilliant african stars, drawing breaths of blossom-scented air wafted from the aguedal, ourida nestling at his side, curled up like a sleepy kitten.
summer passed and winter; came spring and with it, to ortho’s joy, no prospect of a campaign for him. a desert marabout, all rags, filth and fervor, preached a holy war in the tissant country, gathering a few malcontents about him, and yakoub ben ahmed was dispatched with a small force to put a stop to it. there were the usual rumors of unrest in the south, but nothing definite, merely young bucks talking big. ortho looked forward to another year of peace.
he went in the sultan’s train to mogador for a fortnight in may, and at the end of june was sent to taroudant, due east of agadir. a trifling affair of dispatches. he told ourida he would be back in no time and rode off cheerfully.
his business in taroudant done, he was on the point of turning home when he was joined by a kaid mia and ten picked men from morocco bearing orders that he was to take them on to tenduf, a further two hundred miles south, and collect overdue tribute.
ortho well knew what that meant. tenduf was on the verge of outbreak, the first signal of which would be his, the tax collector’s head, on a charger. had he been single he would not have gone to tenduf—he would have made a dash for freedom—but now he had a wife in morocco, a hostage for his fidelity.
seeking a public scribe, he dictated a letter to ourida and another to osman baki, commending her to his care should the worst befall, and rode on.
the basha of tenduf received the sultan’s envoy with the elaborate courtesy that is inherent in a moor and signifieth nothing. he was desolated that the tribute was behindhand, enlarged on the difficulty of collecting it in a land impoverished by drought (which it was not), but promised to set to work immediately. in the meantime ortho lodged in the kasba, ostensibly an honored guest, actually a prisoner, aware that the basha was the ringleader of the offenders and that his own head might be removed at any moment. hawk-faced sheiks, armed to the teeth, galloped in, conferred with the basha, galloped away again. if they brought any tribute it was well concealed. time went by; ortho bit his lip, fuming inwardly, but outwardly his demeanor was of polite indifference. whenever he could get hold of the basha he regaled him with instances of imperial wrath, of villages burned to the ground, towns taken and put to the sword, men, women and children; lingering picturesquely on the tortures inflicted on unruly governors.
“but why did sidi do that?” the basha would exclaim, turning a shade paler at the thought of his peer of khenifra having all his nails drawn out and then being slowly sawn in half.
“why?” ortho would scratch his head and look puzzled. “why? bless me if i know! oh, yes, i believe there was some little hitch with the taxes.”
“these walls make me laugh,” he remarked, walking on the tenduf fortifications.
the governor was annoyed. “why so? they are very good walls.”
“as walls go,” ortho admitted. “but what are walls nowadays? they take so long to build, so short a time to destroy. why, our turk gunners breached the derunat walls in five places in an hour. the sole use for walls is to contain the defenders in a small space, then every bomb we throw inside does its work.”
“hum!” the basha stroked his brindled beard. “hum—but supposing the enemy harass you in the open?”
ortho shrugged his shoulders. “then we kill them in the open, that is all. it takes longer, but they suffer more.”
“it took you a long time at figvig,” the basha observed maliciously.
“not after we learned the way.”
“and what is the way?”
“we take possession of the wells and they die of thirst in the sands and save us powder. at figvig there were many wells; it took time. here—” he swept his hand over the burning champagne and snapped his fingers. “just that.”
“hum,” said the basha and walked away deep in thought. day after day came and went and ortho was not dead yet. he had an idea that he was getting the better of the bluffing match, that the basha’s nerve was shaking and he was passing it on.
there came a morning when the trails were hazy with the dust of horsemen hastening in to tenduf, and the envoy on the kasba tower knew that the crisis had arrived.
it was over by evening. the tribute began to come in next day and continued to roll in for a week more.
the basha accompanied ortho ten miles on his return journey, regretting any slight misconstruction that might have arisen and protesting his imperishable loyalty. he trusted that his dear friend sa?d el inglez would speak well of him to the sultan and presented him with two richly caparisoned horses and a bag of ducats as a souvenir of their charming relations.
slowly went the train; the horses were heavy laden and the heat terrific. ortho dozed in the saddle, impatient at the pace, powerless to mend it. he beguiled the tedious days, mentally converting the basha’s ducats into silks and jewelry for ourida. it was the end of august before he reached taroudant. there he got word that the court had moved to rabat and he was to report there. other news he got also, news that sent him riding alone to morocco city, night and day, as fast as driven horseflesh would carry him.
he went through the high atlas passes to goundafa, then north across the plains by tagadirt and aguergour. from aguergour on the road was crawling with refugees—men, women, children, horses, donkeys, camels loaded with household goods staggering up the mifis valley, anywhere out of the pestilent city. they shouted warnings at the urgent horseman: “the sickness, the sickness! thou art riding to thy death, lord!”
ortho nodded; he knew. it was late afternoon when he passed through tameslouht and saw the koutoubia minaret in the distance, standing serene, though all humanity rotted.
he was not desperately alarmed. plagues bred in the beggars’ kennels, not in palace gardens. it would have reached his end of the city last of all, giving his little family ample time to run. osman baki would see to it that ourida had every convenience. they were probably down at dar el beida reveling in the clean sea breezes, or at rabat with the court. he told himself he was not really frightened; nevertheless he did the last six miles at a gallop, passed straight through the bab ksiba into the kasba. there were a couple of indolent sudanese on guard at the gate and a few more sprawling in the shadow of the drum barracks, but the big standard square was empty and so were the two further courts.
he jumped off his horse at the postern and walked on. from the houses around came not a sound, not a move; in the street he was the only living thing. he knocked at his own door; no answer. good! they had gone!
the door swung open to his push and he stepped in, half relieved, half fearful, went from room to room to find them stripped bare. ourida had managed to take all her belongings with her then. he wondered how she had found the transport. osman baki contrived it, doubtless. a picture flashed before him of his famous black horse squadron trekking for the coast burdened with ourida’s furniture—a roll of haitis to this man, a cushion to that, a cauldron to another—and he laughed merrily.
where had they gone, he wondered—safi, dar el beida, mogador, rabat? the blacks at the barracks might know; osman should have left a message. he stepped out of the kitchen into the court and saw a man rooting the little orange trees out of their tubs.
“hey!”
the man swung about, sought to escape, saw it was impossible and flung himself upon the ground writhing and sobbing for mercy.
it was a beggar who sat at the ahmar gate with his head hidden in the hood of his haik (he was popularly supposed to have no face), a supplicating claw protruding from a bundle of foul rags and a muffled voice wailing for largesse. ortho hated the loathly beast, but ourida gave him money—“in the name of god.”
“what are you doing here?”
“great lord, have mercy in the name of sidi ben youssef the blest, of abd el moumen and muley idriss,” he slobbered. “i did nothing, lord, nothing. i thought you had gone to the south and would not return to . . . to . . . this house. spare me, o amiable prince.”
“and why should i not return to this house?” said ortho.
the beggar hesitated. “muley, i made sure . . . i thought . . . it was not customary . . . young men do not linger in the places of lost love.”
“dog,” said ortho, suddenly cold about the heart, “what do you mean?”
“surely the kaid knows?” there was a note of surprise in the mendicant’s voice.
“i know nothing; i have been away . . . the lalla ourida?”
the beggar locked both hands over his head and squirmed in the dust. “kaid, kaid . . . the will of allah.”
the little court reeled under ortho’s feet, a film like a heat wave rose up before his eyes, everything went blurred for a minute. then he spoke quite calmly:
“why did she not go away?”
“she had no time, lord. the little one, thy son, took the sickness first; she stayed to nurse him and herself was taken. but she was buried with honor, kaid; the turkish officer buried her with honor in a gay bier with tholbas chanting. i, miserable that i am, i followed also—afar. she was kind to the poor, the lalla ourida.”
“but why, why didn’t osman get them both away before the plague struck the palace?” ortho muttered fiercely, more to himself than otherwise, but the writhing rag heap heard him and answered:
“he had no time, muley. the kasba was the first infected.”
“the first! how?”
“yakoub ben ahmed brought many rebel heads from tissant thinking to please sidi. they stank and many soldiers fell sick, but yakoub would not throw the heads away—it was his first command. they marched into the kasba with drums beating, sick soldiers carrying offal.”
ortho laughed mirthlessly. so the dead had their revenge.
“where is the turk officer now?” he asked presently. “rabat?”
“no, muley—he too took the sickness tending thy lancers.”
ortho walked away. all over, all gone—wife, boy, faithful friend. ourida would not see her son go by at the proud head of a regiment, nor osman review his memories in his vineyard by the bosporus. all over, all gone, the best and truest.
turning, he flung a coin at the beggar. “go . . . leave me.”
dusk was flooding the little court, powder blue tinged with the rose-dust of sunset. a pair of gray pigeons perched on the parapet made their love cooings and fluttered away again. from the kasba minaret came the boom of the muezzin. high in the summer night drifted a white petal of a moon.
ortho leaned against a pillar listening. the chink of anklets, the plud, plud of small bare feet.
“sa?d, my beloved, is it you? tired, my heart’s dear? rest your head here, lord; take thy ease. thy fierce son is asleep at last; he has four teeth now and the strength of a lion. he will be a great captain of lances and do us honor when we are old. your arm around me thus, tall one . . . ?ie, now am i content beyond all women . . .”
from twilight places came the voice of osman baki and the subdued tinkle of the gounibri. “allah has been good to me. i have seen many wonders—rivers, seas, cities and plains, fair women, brave men and stout fighting, but i would yet see the himalayas. after that i will go home where i was a boy. listen while i sing you a song of my own country such as shepherds sing . . .”
ortho’s head sank in his hands. all over now, all gone. . . . something flapped in the shadows by the orange trees, flapped and hopped out into the central moonlight and posed there stretching its crippled wings.
it was the old eagle disgustingly bloated.
that alone remained, that and the loathly beggar, left alone in the dead city to their carrion orgy. a shock of revulsion shook ortho. ugh!
he sprang up and, without looking round, strode out of the house and down the street to where his horse was standing.
a puff of hot wind followed him, a furnace blast, foul with the stench of half-buried corpses in the big mussulman cemetery outside the walls. ugh!
he kicked sharp stirrups into his horse and rode through the ksiba gate.
“fleeing from the sickness—eh?” sneered a mokaddem of sudanese who could not fly.
“no—ghosts,” said ortho and turned his beast onto the western road.
“the sea! the sea!”
