Desert Rogue

“Has anyone ever tried to free Zobeir’s women?” Victoria asked, a tiny glimmer of hope sparking to life.

“To be certain, no one has succeeded, though once in a while there’s been a halfhearted attempt by the Europeans to interrupt an auction. But all that happened was a temporary postponement or relocation of the sale.”

Dropping her eyes to the ground, Victoria tried not to acknowledge her fear as the guards led her forward. The lounging men awaiting their own purchase by others continued to watch her every move, devouring her pale flesh with their ravenous eyes, despite her escorts’ cursing and shoving them out of the way.

In front of the interior gate, she stood silently, searching for some chink in the security, determined to find a means of escape. If she could rally the other women, perhaps they could break and run when they were led to the market.... They couldn’t all be docile when it came to being sold into slavery.

“A word of advice, do as you are told or you will know pain,” said the leader of Zobeir’s contingent as he released her arm. “If you listen to your master, you may find your life not too unbearable, though I expect you’ve many more lessons to learn before that happens.”

Then, with his hand at the small of her back, he pushed her through the gate and signaled that it be shut.

The area was much the same as the men’s compound. Women of various shades, though none as light as Victoria, paced uneasily, apparently too nervous to stay still.

Victoria was the first white woman any of them had ever seen, and some of them crowded around her, reaching out to stroke her skin, only to pull back in fear when they saw her blue eyes.

“It is all right. I am a woman like you,” she assured them, holding out her hand to display its color. If she could convince these women that they had something in common, there might be a chance. “I am here against my will, just as you are, but I am not ready to be sold. What about you?”

But the women had withdrawn from her, eyeing the pale witch with suspicion and giving no indication of whether they had understood. Once more she was alone to contemplate her future.

* * *

In the short while they had been inside the city, he and Ali had learned a lot, Jed realized with satisfaction. The hardest part had been restraining himself from beating the hell out of his spurious captor to put a stop to that sand rat’s lordly manner.

If the damned Egyptian didn’t watch his step, Jed just might consider leaving Ali Sharouk behind when things started heating up and it came time to flee the city. But even as the temptation crossed his mind, Jed knew he would never do such a thing. Unaccustomed as he was to working with a partner, he and Ali were in this together, and Jed Kincaid was, if nothing else, an honorable man—at least of sorts.

A snap of the halter around his neck caused a resentful Jed to hasten his steps and struggle to keep his demeanor docile as he followed Ali along a dark, narrow alley.

Their path ran along the outer wall for a short distance, past a minor gate, Jed noted, surreptitiously raising his eyes to take in every detail while he planned their escape route and alternate ones, as well. Then the narrow street turned in upon itself, and shifted direction once more.

The slave block was located at the center of this maze full of twisting turns and forbidding passageways so that it was hidden from prying eyes. Slavery might be an accepted way of life in Khartoum, yet it appeared the local citizenry was smart enough not to want to offend the sensibilities of visiting Europeans, especially when one of those foreigners was occasionally placed on the block. From what he had heard about Khartoum, its foreign residents ignored the trading in human flesh that took place here, pretending it existed only in the realm of rumor. Nonetheless, they kept their women close at hand, knowing they would be lost forever if they disappeared into the serpentine streets of the city.

Jed’s thoughts ended abruptly as the alleyway left the darkness behind and spilled out into the strong, oppressive heat of a sunlit marketplace. Realizing danger surrounded them, the American felt a rush of excitement course through his blood. Ali had been right. Jed Kincaid needed adventure like this as surely as he needed air.

Anxious to set things into motion, Jed nonetheless patiently allowed Ali to lead him around the perimeter of the bazaar, the Egyptian stopping often to talk to Khartoum’s inhabitants in Arabic. Within a short time, Jed had discerned the layout of the pens, chosen the partially concealed spots in which to plant the explosives, and stealthily accomplished the task while Ali stood in front of him, presenting a shield to anyone who would be curious enough to observe them.

Still, they had yet to uncover the slave merchant mentioned by the kidnappers at the oasis. And without locating him, Jed couldn’t be certain Victoria Shaw was anywhere near Khartoum’s infamous marketplace.

“Time’s growing short, Ali. Find Zobeir,” Jed commanded with whispered authority. The Egyptian’s only response was to pull Jed behind him as he approached an ancient water seller.

This was hardly the time to get thirsty, Jed thought in disbelief when the old man, his back bent under the weight of the large, long-spouted cask he carried, leaned forward to pour Ali a cup of the precious liquid.

“I will have some more, grandfather, along with information,” Ali said, pressing a coin into the gnarled hand. “I need advice on how to sell this worthless slave. Can you direct me to a knowledgeable man, a slaver who knows what needs to be done in order to get a decent price for such poor merchandise?”

“The most celebrated of all is Zobeir. There he is, the fat one sitting in the midst of the others. It is he who can best advise you. And for such a pretty man as this, he might offer to purchase the slave himself. It would save you the auctioneer’s fee.”

Pretty man! a ruffled Jed balked in quiet indignation. He wasn’t at all sure he liked the water seller’s words as Ali thanked the elder and then crossed the compound, keeping the American tightly in tow.

“Es-salam ‘aleikum,” Ali called in greeting, nearing the men and dragging Jed none too gently.

The Egyptian hunkered down next to the others. With the rifle the ransom money had brought cradled in his hands and the glowering look he sent in Jed’s direction, Ali Sharouk seemed more like a formidable desert dweller than a harmless city shopkeeper. The journey from Cairo had hardened him, and Jed found no fault with Ali’s appearance while they waited for the slave merchants to acknowledge their presence.

“U ‘aleikum es-salam warahmet Allah wabarakatu,” one of the men finally replied, uttering the usual response to Ali’s greeting. He eyed the unknown pair suspiciously all the same.

“Can you tell me if there is to be an auction soon? I wish to earn some gold and at the same time shed this burden,” Ali stated with a jerk of his head in Jed’s direction.

“You are Egyptian, aren’t you?” the rotund figure identified as Zobeir asked shrewdly.

“Yes. My family roams the southern lands near Berenika,” a nonchalant Ali replied.

“And you came here to sell a slave?” inquired a third slaver, assessing the man tethered at the end of the rope.

“It is said that such a task is easier to accomplish and much more rewarding in Khartoum than in Egypt,” the newcomer said, his expression daring the others to contradict him, “especially when the slave is white.”

“Still, for a man living in a land ruled by Europeans rather than the khedive, who possesses a title and little else, selling a Caucasian is an audacious undertaking,” Zobeir stated quietly.

“Not as bold as the crime this jackal has committed,” Ali asserted, his face set in hard lines as he forced Jed to his knees and struck him harshly.

Son of a bitch! I owe you one, Jed thought savagely, resenting the need to cower under Ali’s blow.

“And that crime was?” Zobeir inquired politely.

“He approached my wife,” Ali announced through clenched teeth, telling the tale Jed had concocted. “I vowed before Allah that this heap of camel dung would pay for his transgression. Death is too easy for him. I would rather he know misery for years to come. Besides, I like the idea of filling my purse at his expense. Now, is there to be an auction or must I seek a buyer on my own?”

“There will be a private auction tomorrow. But I doubt you will get much for him. He looks rather submissive for so large and well muscled a man,” Zobeir said, his glittering eyes raking Jed’s huddled form speculatively.

“He has learned to be,” Ali stated grimly. “Still, he is strong and can do much work.”

“His back is well scarred, then?” asked Zobeir. His voice was dispassionate, but he continued to scrutinize Jed’s broad shoulders and slender hips with an intensity that made the American uneasy.

“Not at all,” Ali assured, knowing a lie would be uncovered. “I am wise enough to know that someone might want to buy him for reasons other than his capacity for labor. There are many ways to discipline a man, and this slave is practically flawless.”

A stunned Jed listened to the exchange, straining to remain silent as Ali deviated from the script he had worked out for him.

“I might be interested in buying this slave for myself,” Zobeir said, salacious interest fleeting across his face for an instant. “And I will give you a fair price, too.”

“Let us see what offers I receive tomorrow,” Ali replied smoothly, causing Jed to breathe a furtive sigh of relief.

“But what can you hope to get for him? You know he has no spirit,” the obese slave merchant argued.

“True, yet it could be that someone might want a man of size and meek temperament to stand guard over a harem.”

Jed’s eyes, hidden as he rested his head on his arms in an attempt to look dejected, popped open. What the hell was Ali doing? If his improvising didn’t stop, there would be an explosion in the marketplace that needed no match.

“It might be so, but wouldn’t alterations have to be made?” Zobeir asked with a wicked chuckle and a glance at Jed’s crotch.

“From what I have seen they would be very minor alterations,” Ali replied with a smirk, ignoring the look of disappointment that crossed Zobeir’s pudgy face.

That carrion-eating bastard was going to be dead when they got out of here, Jed raged inwardly, calling on all of his inner resources not to wrap his fingers around Ali’s lying throat.

“I see,” Zobeir said, stroking his beard thoughtfully, wondering if the Egyptian was telling the truth or merely bragging about his own endowment. “In that case, why don’t you take him into the pens and put him with the others to be sold tomorrow? Perhaps later I will inspect him and either make an offer or else advise you as to what you can expect to get for him. Tell the guards Zobeir sent you, and get a receipt for your merchandise.”

But we have to find out if the girl is in there first, otherwise we’re only creating more problems, Jed thought frantically. He swore Ali had the brains of a beetle. The Egyptian rose and yanked him roughly to his feet.

“Selling a Caucasian will bring no difficulty?” Ali asked as though reading the American’s mind.

“None at all,” Zobeir replied, raising a glass-lined cup to his lips and sipping at his heavily sweetened coffee.

“Still, I have reservations. I would hate to see this dog rescued. Perhaps I should seek a private sale,” Ali muttered.

You idiot, Jed wanted to scream. What are you trying to do, get him to make another offer so he can take me home to his bed?

“As you will. But I can tell you there is another European in there, a woman I, myself, am putting up for bid,” Zobeir stated with a shrug of his rounded shoulders.

“Is that so?” Ali inquired, his interest all too apparent to Jed’s way of thinking.

“Yes, and a lovely thing, too,” Zobeir replied, not bothering to mention her inherent disobedience and shrewish disposition.

“Then possibly we could trade. Your slave for mine. My wife could use a maid, and so could I. As for yourself, this man might be to your liking,” Ali said suggestively.

Sweet God in heaven! What are you, some Nile-spawned numskull? a disbelieving Jed fumed. He was ready to reach for the knife hidden in his boot and slit Zobeir’s throat if the bastard so much as touched him, and, at the moment, he’d enjoy opening Ali’s veins, as well.

“That’s not possible. The one I sell is too rich a prize for a man who wanders the desert. She’s destined for some wealthy sheik’s bed,” Zobeir responded pompously, his thoughts on the woman he had been ordered to kill.

“Ah, at least there was no harm in my asking,” Ali responded good-naturedly as he turned to lead Jed across the square to the slave pen, their retreat followed closely by Zobeir’s lusting eyes.

“That went well enough,” Ali said in a low voice.

“Well? You damned jackass,” Jed hissed. “What did you think you were doing back there? I’m going to wring your neck.”

“Quiet, slave,” Ali ordered, relishing the angry fire that sprang into Jed’s eyes at the command. Perhaps there was some pleasure to be had in dangerous adventuring, after all.

Jed didn’t see things in quite that light, however, as he stood in the shadows of the tall walls surrounding the slave pens. His ire continued to grow when Ali delivered his orders to the overseer in imperious tones. To Jed’s way of thinking, such posturing was becoming all too easy and familiar for the formerly reticent shopkeeper, and he vowed that as soon as they left Khartoum, Ali was one hombre who would be reminded quickly and effectively just who the leader of this operation actually was.

In the meantime, there was little Jed could do about it other than try to brush his anger aside and concentrate on the matter at hand. Calculating the strength of the forbidding sandstone walls enclosing the captives bound for slavery, he was satisfied as to the amount and placement of the explosives he had planted.

Things were under control if Ali could but accomplish the simple task that had been set him. Yet, as the overseer took Jed’s halter and led him through the slated wooden gates into the dreary interior of the holding area, Jed Kincaid felt uneasy, despite the fact that he didn’t expect to be here for very long. The sight of the towering walls and the restless milling about of men, some of them with eyes full of hatred and others wearing an expression bereft of hope, caused the fine hairs on the back of his neck to rise ominously.

It was only his natural abhorrence of confinement that made him feel as he did, Jed reminded himself—that and his perception of what it would feel like to be actually destined for the slave block the next morning. Ignoring the vivid workings of his imagination, Jed affected a dejected shuffle behind the overseer. The wandering adventurer knew that his accelerated heartbeat and the rushing of his blood gave him a decided edge. Everyone else confined in the pens would be momentarily stunned when the unexpected occurred. He would be ready. His hardened body would be prepared to spring into rapid action like the great cats that roamed this region.

When the overseer finally released his grip on the rope around the American’s neck and pushed him tumbling forward, Jed remained crouched, a seemingly defeated captive. Though the sight of a white man was not totally uncommon, a few curious eyes lit upon the Caucasian in their midst. But no one saw Jed extract the blade concealed in his boot top and begin his furtive shredding of the heavy rope binding his wrists. His slumping shoulders and curled body simply marked him as one more cowed bit of humanity unable to adjust to the miserable fate that had befallen him.

Chapter Five

Perhaps her mistake had been trying to speak to all the women at once, Victoria considered. If she could prevail on one or two at a time, they might be more receptive to her urgings. She studied the more reserved females huddled by the far wall, their posture clearly revealing their anxiety. Cowed by their situation, they might be ready to consider any alternative, no matter how rash. Victoria straightened her spine, rose to her feet and began to move about the enclosure, her hesitant steps and frequent changes of direction mirroring the actions of many of the captives.

Nearing a mocha-skinned girl no more than fourteen, Victoria lingered to share a few whispered words of encouragement.

“You are helpless only if you believe it so,” she said, uttering the words softly, first in English and then French. A brief flicker of hope crossed the child’s face, and though she made no verbal response, her dark eyes studied Victoria carefully.

More confident, Victoria approached the next woman, speaking her message quietly and then continuing her erratic path about the pen to her next target. She was pleased a few women she’d addressed were standing a bit taller and watching her closely as she rested for a while before beginning yet another circuit of the area.

She had just started her fourth ramble when a guard came up, waving his arms and berating her, clearly agitated by her behavior.

“No talk, English! Walk or sit, but no talking together,” he ordered, scattering the women with his shouts.

“But most women talk when they are frightened. I do no harm.”

“Talk with me,” suggested the Sudanese, his fingers stroking her pale cheek. “I would soothe your nerves.”

“Isn’t your duty to protect the merchandise, not abuse it?” she demanded, slapping his hand away.

“Hunger and thirst will soften your mood before long,” warned the guard harshly. “I could make it easier for you.”

“The white woman is right,” challenged a voice from behind Victoria. “Go back to your post, dog. She does not need help from the likes of you.”

“Before Allah, I wish to see you proud wenches when your master’s whips have tamed you. Your cries will be far different then,” snorted the sentry, turning away in annoyance.

“Thank you,” murmured Victoria to the large woman who had spoken up on her behalf. She was surprised to see her defender was not one of those to whom she had whispered earlier.

“Do not thank me. Tell me what we can do to be free of here,” the stranger urged as others pressed in close upon them. “If you think it possible, maybe there is hope of escape.”

“Of course there is hope,” assured Victoria, daring to believe it for the first time since entering the pens. “My fiancé and half the British Army are on their way to the city this very minute. If we can only...”

* * *

Jed had reduced his bonds to a single strand of hemp that could be easily broken when he sensed a disturbance. Fearing that some watchful sentinel had seen him, he cautiously lifted his dark head. But there was no one glaring at him, nor could he discern any reason for the threatening curses that had been uttered. None of his guards appeared to think anything was amiss.

It was then that he heard a forceful but feminine voice coming from the other side of the wall that separated male from female slaves. The speaker was giving vent to frustrated anger, and Jed lifted an eyebrow in silent approval of the fiery woman who maintained enough spirit to revolt under such trying circumstances. His approbation quickly deteriorated to condemnation, however, when he realized the loud protest was being lodged in fluent English. These strident, haranguing tones, inciting others to riot, had to belong to Hayden Reed’s fiancée. By Zobeir’s account, she was the only white female currently imprisoned here.

Damnation, his fireworks hadn’t started yet, but this carping, insistent female had begun an explosion all her own.

If good old Vicky didn’t quiet down soon, she’d likely find herself chained to a post somewhere. Not that she didn’t deserve it for calling attention to herself just when he wanted her to be ignored, but such a punishment would make the escape he had planned all the more difficult.

Turning to watch three guards walk the perimeter of the walls, Jed hoped that Victoria Shaw would be more docile during the flight he had plotted across the desert. Their ride would be hot enough without some nagging woman making things more heated. But he shouldn’t have to worry, Jed assured himself. Victoria Shaw’s temperament was no doubt something he could handle. In his experience, women had always been only too happy to do his bidding.

Sidling over to the barrier between the two slave pens, Jed saw that he was in luck. Apparently it was chow time. Four more men had entered the area, one carrying sacks of fruit and the flat bread indigenous to the region, and another laboring under a large skin of water. The final two acted as additional guards.

Immediately the inmates began to move to the spot where the food and drink was being distributed, while the sentries on the walls turned both their attention and their rifles in that direction. Not one of them thought anything of the new man standing aloof in the shadows. In time, he would know thirst and hunger, even if misery dulled his appetite for the moment.

As the voices of the captives rose in plaintive pleas for sustenance, Jed prayed that Ali would be able to hear his signal above the din. The distraction made this moment seem the best time to move. Suddenly the first seven notes of a shrill rendition of “Yankee Doodle” rent the air. The guards shifted their weapons in Jed’s direction, and he pretended to tremble so pitifully that the Sudanese decided they must have been mistaken. One so cowardly would not cause a disturbance in the pens. The noise must have come from the market square on the other side of the wall. Thinking no more of it, they turned back to watch over the others clamoring for food and drink.

Jed remained expectantly prepared, the muscles of his arms tensed to pull apart the final strand of the rope hampering his hands. Surely, any second now, the fuses would burn down and the explosions would start, and he could scale the wall into the women’s pen, grab Victoria Shaw and get the hell out of Khartoum.

However, there were no detonations. Seconds all too silent dragged by with agonizing slowness. The tendons of Jed’s body began to protest their rigid readiness. Still, life in Khartoum went on with no interruptions.

“Damn you, Ali!” Jed muttered in a low, feral growl. “Is lighting a match beyond you? I swear, you’ll be sorry for making me wait like this.”

But for all Jed’s fuming, nothing happened, no booming blasts, no shattering sandstone—nothing. Could the Egyptian have been caught, Jed worried, or perhaps be too yellow to go through with their scheme now that the moment had arrived? He had no idea. All he knew was that if things didn’t start happening soon, he was going to have to take matters into his own hands.

Working alone at this point would greatly diminish his chances for success, yet Jed supposed he would have no choice, even if he didn’t particularly like the odds. He’d like it less if he were still incarcerated when Zobeir arrived to inspect Ali’s merchandise.

Determining the position of the guards, Jed debated as to whether he should attack one of them, grab the man’s rifle and shoot his way out, or wait for Zobeir, put a knife to the slaver’s throat and use him as a human shield to effect an escape. Either option was going to make it well-nigh impossible to get out of the pens with Victoria Shaw, but Jed was adamant. He was not going to leave her behind, though he might be tempted to do so if the woman didn’t shut her damn mouth, which still erupted every few minutes.

The sinewy American had just about made up his mind which plan he would follow when an ear-shattering noise rocked the compound, accompanied by the cracking and crumbling of a portion of the sandstone.

“It took you long enough,” he grumbled as the humanity inside the pens reacted to the unnatural occurrence.

The initial response of both riflemen and slaves had been cries of fear, but when those bound for servitude realized a doorway to freedom had appeared, there arose a joyous roar.