If one of the guards on the far wall should turn around, I was wholly exposed, a clear and easy target for even the worst of riflemen.

As quietly and slowly as I could, I worked my wall along the wall toward the front gates. After what seemed many minutes, yet was perhaps only one or two, I reached the edge of the immense, recessed arch that led through the thick walls to the main gates. I listened as closely as possible, but could detect no sounds or movements from the archway. Holding my breath, I peeked around the edge and into the darkness beneath the ramparts.

Arab Head, ca. 1880
(Oil on canvas, 46 × 38.2 cm)
BY William Sartain
Brooklyn Museum

No one.

I slipped into shadows. The main gates were secured with a heavy wooden beam laid across several reinforced braces, and the door within the gates was covered over with several boards and nailed shut. I hid in the shadows of the archway for several moments, collecting myself; I was half-way to my destination.

My plan, albeit hastily conceived, was to make my way to the stables opposite the courtyard from my cell. If possible, I would hide in the stables until darkness and then steal a horse or ass and attempt once more to reach the Dra, this time on my own, traveling at night. I had enough food and water for three days, four or five if I was careful, and there were towns beyond the Dra where I might be able — would be able — to acquire more supplies.

My scheme, I’ll admit, was imperfect: my chances of getting caught by Lhassen’s men were high, while the odds of my reaching the Dra, let alone Smara, were abysmally low, but what choice did I have? Given the disaster of our previous sortie I was not sure the sheiks or El Mahboul and Larbi would be willing to try again; more, if they knew I was determined at all costs to reach my goal, Dhul Fiqar would undoubtedly be ordered to toss me, with considerable prejudice, back into my cell — double-checking the bolt and lock this time — and then be entrusted to put me in restraints and escort me back to Tiznet, far to the north. From there, another escort, no doubt, to Jean in Mogador, and I would no longer be their responsibility or problem. In all likelihood, my adventure would be over, and my dream a failure; we didn’t have enough money to arrange a second expedition.

I had to act.

After gathering my wits (which were attempting to fly off in all directions like ducks sent into a panic by a shot) and taking several deep breaths to calm myself as best I could, I emerged from the shadows and began to make my way once more along the front wall. That they did not see or hear me — I was sure anybody within fifty kilometers could hear the pounding of my heart or the rasping of my panicked breaths — seemed miraculous and, at last, I reached the archway to the stables. Torn between pausing to listen and wanting to be once more in the shadows where the soldiers overhead could not see me, I hesitated for a moment and then darted around the corner. Once more, I encountered no one, and I ran down the long, cool passageway to the immense, covered stables.

There were no animals in the stalls. None of the magnificent Arabians or lesser, trudge horses. No asses. No goats. No chickens in the coops. No stablemen. Neither people nor beasts. I worked my way from stall to stall to make sure, and finally reached the back wall and climbed up on an elevated walkway to reach the narrow, defensive slots that looked out over the yard where they had kept our meharis the night of our departure.