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HI JOLLY!
By Jim Kjelgaard
Illustrated by Kendall Rossi
Dodd, Mead & Company New York 1960
(C) _by Eddy Kjelgaard, 1959._
_Second printing_
_All rights reserved_
_No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher_
_The general situation and many of the events described in this book are based upon historical facts. However, the fictional characters are wholly imaginative: they do not portray and are not intended to portray any actual persons._
_Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 59-6197_
_Printed in the United States of America by Vail-Ballou Press, Inc., Binghamton, N. Y._
_Dedicated to_ DOROTHY AND ED HANSEN
Contents
1. ALI FINDS THE DALUL 1
2. FUGITIVE 21
3. AMBUSH 38
4. THE HADJ 52
5. THE UNPARDONABLE SIN 64
6. THE STRANGE SHIP 78
7. ANOTHER PILGRIMAGE 94
8. TROUBLE 105
9. LIEUTENANT BEALE 120
10. THE EXPEDITION 133
11. THE WILDERNESS 145
12. THE ROAD 158
13. REUNION 174
1. Ali Finds the Dalul
The first gray light of very early morning was just starting to thinthe black night when Ali opened his eyes. He came fully awake, with nolingering period that was part sleep and part wakefulness, but he keptexactly the same position he had maintained while slumbering. Until heknew just what lay about him, he must not move at all.
Motion, even the faintest stir and even in this dim light, was sure toattract the eye of whoever might be near. In this Syrian desert, whereonly the reckless turned their backs to their own caravan companions,whoever might be near--or for that matter far--could be an enemy.
When Ali finally moved, it was to extend his right hand, very slowly andvery stealthily, to the jeweled dagger that lay snugly sheathed beneaththe patched and tattered robe that served him as burnous by day, and bedand bed covering by night. When his fingers curled around the hilt, hebreathed more easily. Next to a camel--of course a _dalul_, or ridingcamel--a dagger was the finest and most practical of possessions, aswell as the best of friends.
As for owning a _dalul_, Ali hadn't even hoped to get so much as abaggage camel for this journey. When it finally became apparent that thecelestial rewards of a trip to Mecca would be augmented by certainpractical advantages if he made his pilgrimage now, he had just enoughsilver to pay for the _ihram_, or ceremonial robe that he must donbefore setting foot in the Holy City. Even then, it had been necessaryto provide Mustapha, that cheating dog of a tailor, with four silvercoins--and two lead ones--and Mustapha had himself to thank for that!When Ali came to ask the price, it was five pieces of silver. When hereturned to buy, it was six.
But the _ihram_, as well as the fifth silver coin which Mustapha mighthave had if he'd retained a proper respect for a bargain, were now safebeneath Ali's burnous. The dagger was a rare and beautiful thing. It hadbeen the property of some swaggering desert chief who, while visitingDamascus, Ali's native city, had imprudently swaggered into a darkcorner.
Though he frowned upon killing fellow humans for other than the mosturgent reasons, and he disapproved completely of assassins who slew sothey might rob, it never even occurred to Ali that he was obliged to doanything except disapprove. He knew the usual fate of swaggering desertchieftains who entered the wrong quarters of Damascus, and, when theinevitable happened, he did not spring to the rescue. That was notrequired by his code of self-preservation. So the assassin snatched hisvictim's purse and fled without any intervention. Ali got the dagger.
In the light of the journey he was undertaking, and the manner in whichhe was undertaking it, a dagger was infinitely more precious than thebest-filled purse. Mecca was indeed a holy city, but of those whotraveled the routes leading to it, not all confined themselves to holythoughts and deeds. Many a pilgrim had had his throat slit for a trifle,or merely because some bandit felt the urge to practice throat slitting.A dagger smoothed one's path, and, as he waited now with his hand on thehilt of his protective weapon, Ali thought wryly that his present pathwas in sore need of smoothing.
He'd left Damascus two weeks ago, intending to offer his services, ascamel driver, to the Amir of the nearby village of Sofad. He would thentravel to Mozarib with his employer's caravan. The very fact that therewould be force behind the group automatically meant that there wouldalso be reasonable safety. Located three days' journey from Damascus,two from Sofad, Mozarib was the assembly point and starting place forthe great Syrian _Hadj_, or pilgrimage. It went without saying that, ifAli tended to his camel driving and kept his dagger handy, he would goall the way to Mecca with the great _Hadj_, which often consisted of5000 pilgrims and 25,000 camels.
Thus he had planned, but his plans had misfired.
He reached Sofad on the morning scheduled for departure, only to findthat the Amir, at the last moment, had decided to make this first marchtoward Mozarib a cool one and had left the previous night. Hoping tocatch up, but not unmindful of the perils that beset the way when heneared the camp of the Sofad pilgrims, Ali had decided that it would beprudent to reconnoiter first. It had indeed been prudent.
Peering down at the camp from a nest of boulders on a hillock, Ali wasjust in time to see the Amir and his fourteen men beheaded, in a mostefficient fashion, by sword-wielding Druse tribesmen who'd taken thecamp. Afterwards, the raiders had loaded everything except the strippedbodies of their victims on their own camels and departed.
It was a time for serious thinking, to which Ali had promptly devotedhimself. Unfortunately, he failed also to think broadly, and the onlyconclusion he drew consisted of the fact that it was still possible forhim to go on and join the _Hadj_. Camel drivers were always welcome.Sparing not a single thought to the idea that Druse raiders wouldrather kill than do anything else, Ali had almost been caught unawaresby the one who had slipped hopefully back to see if he could findsomebody else to behead. Ali had taken to his heels and, so far, he hadproved that he was fleeter than his pursuer. Tenacious as any bloodhound,the Druse had stayed on his trail until yesterday morning. Now he wasshaken. Ali knew that he was somewhere south of Damascus and, with anyluck, might yet join the _Hadj_.
Help would not come amiss. Ali drank the last sip from his goatskinwater flask, shifted his dagger just a little, so it would be ready tohis hand should he have need of it, and made ready to address himself tothe one unfailing Source of help.
Though he had no more water, there was an endless supply of sand. GoodMoslems who could read and write had assured him that this statementappears in the _Koran_: "When ye rise up to prayer, wash your faces andyour hands and your arms to the elbows, and wipe your heads and yourfeet to the ankles." Though it was commonly assumed that one wouldcleanse himself with water before daring to mention Allah's name,special provisions applied to special occasions. For those who had nowater, sand was an acceptable substitute.
His ablutions performed, Ali faced toward Mecca, placed an open hand oneither side of his face and intoned, "God is most great." Remaining ina standing position, he proceeded to the next phase of the prayer thatall good Moslems must offer five times daily.
It was
the recitation of the opening _sura_, or verse, of the _Koran_.Ali, who'd memorized the proper words, had not proceeded beyond, "In thename of the merciful and compassionate God. Praise belongs to God--"when he was interrupted by the roar of an enraged camel.
Ali halted abruptly, instantly and completely, forgetting the sacredrite in which he'd been absorbed and that had five more complete phases,each with prescribed gestures, before he might conclude it. When hefinally remembered, he was a little troubled; Allah might conceivablyfrown upon whoever interrupted prayers to Him. But Ali remembered alsothat Allah is indulgent toward those who are at war, in danger, ill, orfor other good reasons are unable to recite the proper prayers in theproper way at the prescribed times.
Surely a camel in trouble--and, among other things, the beast's roartold Ali that it was in trouble--was the finest of reasons for ignoringeverything else. Not lightly had the camel been designated as Allah'sgreatest gift to mankind. To slight His gift would be to slight Him. Hisconscience clear on that point, Ali devoted himself to analyzing thevarious things he'd learned about when a camel roared in the distance.
The earliest recollection of Ali, who'd never known father or mother,was of his career as a rug vendor's apprentice in the bazaar of TheStreet Called Straight. His master worked him for as many hours as theboy could stay awake, beat him often and left him hungry when he wasunable to steal food. But the life was not without compensations.
Though no longer enjoying the flourishing trade it had once known,Damascus sat squarely astride the main route between the vast reaches ofMohammedan Turkey and Mecca, the city that every good Moslem must visitat least once during his lifetime. The Turks came endlessly, and innumbers, and since it's only sensible to do a little trading, even whenon a holy pilgrimage, when they reached Damascus, they stopped to tradeat The Street Called Straight. But though the pilgrims were interesting,Ali found the camels that carried both the Turks and their goodsinfinitely more so.
He knew them all--plodding baggage beasts, two-humped bactrians, thehybrid offspring of bactrians and one-humped camels, and all the speciesand shades of species in between. But though he liked all camels, hesaved his love for the dromedary, the _heira_, the _hygin_, ridingcamel, or, as Ali called them, the _dalul_.
Invariably ridden by proud men and never used for any purpose otherthan riding, they were a breed apart. Slighter and far more aristocraticthan the baggage beasts, they could carry a rider one hundred milesbetween sunrise and sunset, satisfy themselves with a few handfuls ofdates when the ride ended, and go without water for five days. Theirpedigrees, in many instances longer than those of their riders, datedback to pre-Biblical history. The owner of a _dalul_ considered such apossession only slightly less precious than his life.
It was when he became acquainted with the _dalul_ that Ali invented hisown mythical father. This parent was not a nameless vagabond, pettythief, or fly-by-night adventurer who never even knew he'd sired a sonand wouldn't have cared if he had, but a renowned trainer of _dalul_. Itwas he who went to the camel pastures and chose the wild young stallionsthat were ready for breaking. Though they would kill any ordinary manwho ventured near, Ali's father gentled them and taught them to acceptthe saddle and rein. Ali determined that he himself must go out with thecamels and promptly ran away from his master.
Because he was too young to be of any imaginable use, the few caravanmasters who condescended to look at him usually aimed a blow right afterthe look. For two years Ali was one of the numerous boy-vagabonds whoinfested the bazaars of Damascus. If such a life did not elevate themind it could not help but sharpen the wits.
Then, just after his ninth birthday, Ali got his chance to go out with acaravan. It was a very small and very poor one, fewer than fifty camels,and the caravan master decided to take Ali only because he was a boy. Assuch, quite apart from the fact that he could safely be browbeaten, itwas reasonable to assume that he had not had time to learn all thetricks of experienced drivers, the more talented among whom have beenknown to get rich, and leave the owners poor, on just one journey.
Apart from their uses and physical functions, which he learned soprecisely that one glance enabled him to cite any camel's past history,age, present state of health, and what it would probably do next, Alicame to appreciate the true miracle of a camel. He was the one in tenthousand, the camel driver who knew everything the rest did--and muchthey did not--and who transcended that to understand clearly the natureof the camel itself. So fine was his touch and so complete the affinitybetween camels and himself, that even beasts thought hopelesslyunmanageable responded to him.
Nine years old when he made his first trip, Ali had spent the past nineyears on the caravan routes. He'd been to Baghdad, Istanbul, Tosya,Trebizond. He went where the camels went and never cared if it was twohundred miles or two thousand. But though every member of a caravan isentitled to trade for himself, and many a camel driver has become acaravan master or owner, Ali was as poor as on the day he started.
Partly responsible for this was his consuming passion for camels and hisnegligible interest in trading. Far more at fault was his origin. Themen of the caravans knew him as Ali, and only Allah could know moreabout camels. To the merchants, who saw camels merely as the mostconvenient method for transporting goods, he remained the orphan waif ofDamascus. They turned their backs upon one who had neither family norprestige, who could point to no achievement other than an outstandingskill with camels. Now, camels were very convenient, but, as everymerchant in a perfumed drawing room knew, they also smelled!
So Ali had a most compelling reason for deciding to undertake hispilgrimage at this time. After he'd been to Mecca, like all others whohave completed the difficult and dangerous journey, he'd be entitled toadd the prefix "Hadji" to his name. That alone would never make him theequal of the wealthy merchants who also had been to Mecca, but it wouldsurely make him the superior of all who had not. And this was a vastnumber, since the life of a merchant is not necessarily conducive tophysical achievement and the journey to Mecca is hard.
Now, in a desert wilderness, while on the way to Mecca, a camel hadcried out to Ali, and he could not have helped responding, even if thecamel had cried while he was at prayer in the _masjid-al-haram_, theGreat Mosque of Mecca.
Its roar had already told Ali many things about the beast, including theexact direction he must take to find it and approximately how far hemust go before locating it. The sound had had a certain timbre andquality that hinted of regal things and regal bearing, therefore it wasnot a baggage animal. However, neither did it have the awesome blast ofa fully-grown _dalul_. It was not challenging another stallion tobattle, but roaring in rage and defiance at something that it did notknow how to fear.
Ali's hand slipped back to the hilt of his dagger. Unmindful of the hotlittle wind that had just arisen, and that would become hotter as theday grew longer, he started toward the camel. Although he had never beenhere before, he had traveled similar country often enough to make areasonably accurate guess as to the terrain that lay ahead.
It was a land of low hills, or hillocks, whose sides and narrow crestssupported a straggling growth of Aleppo pine intermixed with scrubbybrush. There was more than average rainfall, so the trees were biggerand not as parched as those found in very arid regions. The camel was ina gulley between the second and third hills. Ali climbed the hill, slunkbehind an Aleppo pine, peered around the trunk and gasped.
There was a camp in the gulley--and a string of baggage camels andmen--but at first glance Ali saw nothing except the _dalul_. Of a deepfawn color, which stamped it as one of the Nomanieh dromedaries, it wasstill so young that it had not yet attained full growth. Located apartfrom the rest, each separate leg was held by a separate rope, and thebonds were stretched so tightly that the beast could hardly move. Afifth rope, that encircled its neck, was equally tight.
Evidently bound in such a fashion for many hours, the young _dalul_ wasweary, thirsty and choking. But, despite its obvious misery, this wasfar and away the most m
agnificent beast Ali had ever beheld. It was theriding camel he'd often dreamed of when, plodding along some lonelycaravan trail, he'd conjured up mental images of the perfect _dalul_.
Further examination revealed why the young _dalul_ was bound so cruelly.Ali's lip curled in contempt.
The men--he counted nineteen--were part of the same band of Drusetribesmen who'd pillaged the camp of Sofad and massacred its people.Evidently they considered themselves safe here, since they kept no watchat all and seemed to be unconcerned about anything. The twenty-ninecamels on the picket line were all stolid baggage animals such as evenDruse could handle. The young _dalul_ was something else.
There was no telling just how it had fallen into the hands of theDruse; a _dalul_ so fine would certainly be carefully guarded.Regardless of how the raiders had obtained the animal, they could nothandle it. Obviously, it had turned on them and probably hurtsomebody--Ali voiced a fervent hope that the injury was not a lightone--and now the _dalul_ was tightly bound, to insure that it would hurtnobody else.
Ali whispered, "Have patience, brother."
Slowly and thoroughly, beginning at one end and letting his eyes movealertly to the other, Ali inspected the camp and confirmed an ugly truththat had already been pointed out by common sense. With eight good menat his back, and the element of surprise in their favor, he would have areasonable chance of storming the camp. But, as things were--
He'd help neither the _dalul_ nor himself by joining his ancestors atthis moment, Ali decided. He pulled the burnous over his head, drew thedagger from its sheath and settled down to wait.
The light grew, and the heat with it, as the sun climbed higher. Alirisked moving just enough to pick up a pebble and put it on his tongue.He had no water, and if the wait proved a long one, the pebble wouldhelp relieve thirst. He must not move again, though. The merest flickercould be one too many, and certainly a Druse tribesman with even abaggage camel could run down a man who hadn't any.
A camel rider, coming into camp from the south, roused not the leastinterest among the men already there, and Ali took mental note of theincident. Doubtless these raiders were flanking the great _Hadj_, butsurely they could not be insane enough to attack it. Probably theyintended to waylay small groups coming from various sources to join the_Hadj_, just as they had the camp of Sofad. The very fact that the camelrider came almost unnoticed proved that the raiders had a sentry postedto the south, and the sentry had somehow advised his companions of therider's approach. Apparently, they anticipated no interference from anyother point of the compass.
Sudden hope rose in Ali's heart. The rider might be bringing news ofanother caravan to be attacked, and, if so, he and his companions woulddepart very shortly. Since they did not know how to control it anyhow,they would not take the _dalul_ with them. Ali's eyes strayed back tothe tethered animal.
It must have come from the very choicest of the riding camels of somemighty official. Even the Pasha of Damascus would not have many such,for the simple reason that there weren't many. More than ever, itrepresented all the perfection dreamed of by some camel breeder--somelong-dead camel breeder, since the _dalul_ had never been produced inone generation or during the life span of one man--who knew the desertand yearned for the ideal camel.
Watching the _dalul_, Ali found his own mounting thirst easier to bear.The animal had been without water longer than he and probably wasdesperate for a drink--but refused to show it. Ali had learned whilestill apprenticed to the rug vendor that camels may be as thirsty as anyother creatures. He turned his eyes back to the men.
One, in a rather desultory fashion, was mending a pack saddle. Two orthree others were at various small chores and the rest were sleeping inthe shade of their own tents. The hardness flowed back into Ali's eyes.
No followers of Mohammed, the Druse were devoted to heathen gods andrituals. It was not for that, or their hypocrisy--a Druse tribesmangoing among other peoples usually pretended to accept the religion ofhis hosts--or their thievery, or the fact that they seldom attackedanyone at all unless the odds were heavily in their favor, that Ali nowhated them. He'd have hated anyone at all who mistreated such a _dalul_in such a fashion!
It occurred to Ali that he had neglected the prayer he should haveoffered immediately after the sun rose and probably would have to omitproper ceremonies at high noon, but it did not worry him. Allah, theCompassionate, would surely understand that there are certaininconveniences attached to the observance of prayers while in the fullsight of hostile Druse. Nor would He frown upon Ali for refusing to letthe _dalul_ out of his sight. When Ali left the camp, the _dalul_ wasleaving with him.
Passing the noon mark and starting its swing to the west, the full glareof the sun no longer burned down on Ali's burnous, and the branches ofthe Aleppo pine offered some shade. But since the day became hotter asit grew longer, with the hottest hour of any being that one justpreceding sunset, there was little relief from the heat.
Ali lay as still as possible, partly because the slightest motion wouldbe sure to excite the curiosity of any Druse who happened to glance hisway and partly because moving must inevitably make him hotter. Helpinghim to accept with grace what almost any other man of almost any othernation would have found an unendurable wait were certain talents andcharacteristics that had been his from birth.
Though he'd never even known his own father, Ali was of ancient blood.Few of his ancestors, throughout all the generations, had ever had thefacilities, even though they might possess the best of reasons, forgoing anywhere in a hurry. Ali came of people who knew how to wait, andadded to his inheritance was his experience with the caravans.Regardless of when a shipment had been promised for delivery in Baghdador Aleppo, it lingered along the way, if the camels that carried itdeveloped sore feet en route.
In some measure, Ali suffered from heat, and, to a far greater extent,he knew the tortures of thirst, but he accepted both with the inbornfatalism of one who knows he must accept what he can neither change norprevent. Heat and thirst were passing factors. Unless he died first, inwhich event he'd join Allah's celestial family, sooner or later he'd becool and he'd drink.
There'd been little action in the camp all day, but toward night theDruse stirred. They did so surlily, grudgingly, after the fashion of menwho do not like what they've been doing in the recent past and have noreason to suppose they'll be doing anything more interesting in the nearfuture. Rather than build cooking fires, they nibbled dates, meal andhoney cakes, and drank from goatskin flasks. There was no singing, noteven much shouting. The Druse, born raiders who could be happy only whenin the saddle and riding to the attack, must now be unhappy and snarl ateach other because their scouts, who were doubtless haunting everycaravan trail, had brought no news of quarry sighted.
Night came, and with it a coolness so refreshing that it inspired Ali tothoughts of the heavenly bath that must be enjoyed by Allah's angels.The cool night air fell and enfolded him like a gentle flood, but withno hint of the earth's dross. After a blazing day, it was as welcome asthe sight of green palms ringing an oasis.
Ali reveled in the coolness, but not nearly as much as he did in thefact that, with night, the Druse camp quieted. After waiting anotherhour, he drew his dagger and went forward.
The sky was cloudless, but there was no moon and, at this early hour,very few stars shone. Ali advanced with silent and unfaltering speed, inspite of the fact that he could see almost nothing. A dozen times duringthe day he had marked the exact route between himself and the young_dalul_. He knew where he was going.
Ali's fingers tightened on the dagger's hilt. If Allah saw fit to revealhim to the Druse, he hoped that the All Merciful would see equally fitto defend himself manfully. When Ali was within a dozen yards of the_dalul_, the peaceful night was shattered by an alarm.
"Ho! Wake and arm! There is an enemy among us!"
Because that was all he could do, Ali began to run. He had cast his lot,and now all depended on the _dalul_. If he could free it, then mount andride, he and the camel
would be safe at least until morning.
Ali was within an arm's length of the _dalul_ when it turned and spoketo him. It was a guttural sound, and scarcely audible, but as differentfrom the usual camel's grunt as the scream of a hawk is from the chirpof a robin. Even as he flung himself forward and started slashing at thenearest rope, Ali heard and correctly interpreted.
The _dalul_ had just said that it would kill him if it could!