The Last Camel Died at Noon - Elizabeth Peters [70]
We camped in what might have been its shade if it had possessed any leaves. Bathing was out of the question, of course, but we spared a scant cupful of water to sponge off the sand that had formed a crust on our perspiring faces and limbs. A change of clothing, as well, afforded great relief. As the chill of the desert night closed around us, Emerson and I sat by the small fire on which our meager evening meal was cooking. He had lit his pipe. Ramses was seated some distance away, talking to Kemit. Beyond them crouched our riding camels, grotesque shapes in the cold moonlight.
The men had placed their camp farther from us each night—a gesture whose significance did not escape me, but which I considered it best not to mention to them. When I mentioned it to Emerson, he shrugged his broad shoulders. “They were the pick of a poor lot, Peabody. If I had had the time to send messengers to my friends among the Beduin… I don’t know what they’re complaining about, thus far matters have gone very well.”
“Except for the camels dying.”
“The weak have been winnowed out,” said Emerson sententiously. “They were the weakest. The others appear healthy enough.”
“I saw Daoud haranguing the men this evening. They were gathered around him like conspirators, and he broke off when he saw me coming.”
“He was probably telling them a vulgar story,” Emerson said. “Good Gad, Peabody, these womanish qualms are not like you. Are you feeling well?”
He reached for my hand.
Within it—figuratively speaking—lay the means of altering Emerson’s set purpose. I was not feeling well. All I had to do was admit to the feverish malady that had afflicted me since the previous afternoon, and we would be on our way back to civilization and a doctor as fast as Emerson could take me. But such a course was unthinkable. No one understood better than I the passion that drove him on into the unknown. Not only had Forth’s map proved accurate, but the discovery of ancient remains substantiated the theory that along that hitherto unknown and unsuspected road had passed the merchants and messengers and the fleeing royalty of ancient Cush. I was as eager as Emerson to discover what lay at the end of that road. At least I would have been, if my head had not ached so much.
“Of course I am well,” I replied crossly.
“Your hand is warm,” said Emerson. “You brought your medical kit, of course; have you taken your temperature?”
“I don’t need a thermometer to tell me when I have a fever, and I know as well as any doctor what to do about it if I have. Don’t fuss, Emerson.”
“Peabody.”
“Yes, Emerson.”
Emerson took my face between his hands and looked into my eyes. “Take some quinine and go to bed, my dear. I’ll dose the da——the cursed camels and bed them down for the night. If I am not entirely satisfied in the morning that you are in perfect health, I will tie you on a camel and take you back.”
Tears flooded my eyes at this demonstration of affection, one of the noblest ever made by man for the sake of woman. But my gallant Emerson was not forced to that agonizing decision. Fortunately the men abandoned us during the night, taking with them the camels that carried most of our remaining food and water.
The effect of this admittedly disconcerting discovery made me forget my discomfort, and when our greatly reduced party gathered to discuss the situation, I felt almost as alert as usual. Kemit, whom Ramses had discovered lying unconscious amid the trampled sand and camel dung that marked the men’s former camp, had refused to let me treat his wound. It was only a bump on the head, he said, and his sole regret was that the blow had prevented him from