The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [67]
Years spent stumbling through the pitfalls of matrimony had taught me that it would be ill-advised to deny this ridiculous statement. In silence I stooped to pick up the papers, and Emerson continued, “It must be found, Peabody. Though it is a frail reed upon which to risk our lives, it is better than nothing.”
“Daoud has agreed to guide us,” I said hesitantly.
“He’s no more use as a guide than Ramses there. Less, in fact,” Emerson added quickly, as Ramses started to protest. “If he were a Beduin, familiar with the desert, that would be one thing, but he told me he has lived all his life in Haifa. No, we must have the map. We dare not set forth without it!”
I started to reply, but something stopped me, like an invisible hand placed over my lips. I can truthfully claim that I seldom suffer from indecision. Such, however, was the case now. Before I could make up my mind, Ramses emitted the small cough that usually preceded a statement of whose reception he was not entirely certain.
“Fortunately, Papa, there is a copy of the map at hand. I took the liberty of tracing it before we left England.”
Emerson dropped the papers I had handed him and spun around to face his son. His face shone with delight. “Splendid, Ramses! Run and fetch it at once. It is the last thing we need; we will set forth at dawn.”
With a sigh, I stooped to collect the papers again. The die was cast, our fate determined—but not by me. I too had a copy of the map.
The night before he left us Reggie had handed me a little packet of papers, requesting me in manly but faltering tones to refrain from mentioning it or opening it until after his departure. I knew what it must contain, and my own voice was a trifle unsteady as I assured him he could trust me to carry out his wishes, in the unhappy event that such action should prove necessary. When I did open the packet I found what I had expected—Reggie’s last will and testament, written in his own hand. There were also two letters, one addressed to his grandfather and the other to Slatin Pasha. A copy of the map was attached to this last document; I assumed the letter itself expressed Reggie’s hope that the military authorities would carry on his quest if he fell by the way.
Neither of the letters was sealed. I thought this a particularly delicate and gentlemanly touch on Reggie’s part. Naturally I would never dream of reading such private communications, but under the present circumstances there was no honorable reason why I should have hesitated to admit I possessed a copy of the map. Why did I hesitate? I knew the answer, as well as the Reader must. Without the map we dared not set forth. To supply the commodity that might doom us all to death was a responsibility I had lacked the fortitude to assume.
The first pale hint of sunrise touched the eastern sky as we prepared for departure. I had anointed the camels’ healing sores and forced a dose of cordial—my own invention, compounded of strengthening herbs and a modicum of brandy—down their throats. (Emerson had expressed doubts about the brandy, but the camels seemed to like it.) The baggage, carefully balanced and padded, had been loaded upon their backs. I placed my booted foot upon the foreleg of my kneeling steed and swung myself into the saddle. Ramses was already mounted, perched like a monkey atop a pile of baggage. Emerson followed suit. We were ready.
I turned to survey the little expedition. Little it was; only a dozen camels, only five riders in addition to ourselves. One of them was Kemit. He had been the first to volunteer. In fact, he was the only one to volunteer; the others had only agreed after the payment of extravagant bribes. They were all silent; there was none of the cheerful talk, or song, or laughter with which they were wont to meet the day. The cold gray light cast a corpselike pallor upon their gloomy faces and those of the friends and family members who had come to bid them farewell.
Emerson flung up his hand. His deep voice rolled out across the empty