Invasion of the Sea. Jules Verne

face, black beard, piercing eyes, and resolute demeanor. At a word from him, the tribes would have crossed the vast expanse of the Djerid, if he had wanted to lead them in a holy war against the foreigners.

      In short, he was a man in the prime of life, but he could not have succeeded in escaping without some help from the outside. It would not be enough to pry off the grating and crawl through to the other end of the drain. Hadjar knew the gulf, and he was aware of the powerful currents that build up there, even though, as throughout the whole Mediterranean basin, the tide never rises very high. He knew that no swimmer would be able to make his way against those currents and that he would be carried out to sea without being able to set foot on dry land, either above or below the fort.

      There had to be a boat waiting for him at the end of that passage in the corner of the prison wall.

      When Harrig had finished giving all this information to his companions, the merchant said simply, “I’ve got a boat over there that you can use.”

      “Will you take me to it?” asked Sohar.

      “When the time comes.”

      “You’ll have kept your part of the bargain, then, and we’ll keep ours,” added Harrig. “If we succeed, we’ll double the sum we promised you.”

      “You’ll succeed,” insisted the merchant. Like a typical Levantine, he viewed the entire operation merely as a highly profitable business transaction.¹

      Sohar got to his feet. “What time is Hadjar expecting us?” he asked.

      “Between eleven and midnight,” replied Harrig.

      “The boat will be there well before that,” Sohar assured them. “Once my brother is on board, we’ll take him to the marabout, where the horses are ready.”

      “At that spot,” the merchant pointed out, “you’ll be in no danger of being seen. You can row right up to the beach. There’ll be no one there until morning.”

      “But what about the boat?” asked Horeb.

      “All you have to do is pull it up onto the sand, and I’ll come and get it.”

      Only one question remained to be settled.

      “Which one of us will go and get Hadjar?” asked Ahmet.

      “I will,” said Sohar.

      “And I’ll go with you,” said the old Tuareg woman.

      “No, mother,” Sohar insisted. “It will only take two of us to row the boat to the bordj. If we should meet anyone, your presence might arouse suspicion. You must go to the marabout. Horeb and Ahmet will go with you. Harrig and I will take the boat and bring back my brother.”

      Realizing that Sohar was right, Djemma simply asked, “When do we leave?”

      “Right now,” he replied. “In half an hour, you will be at the marabout. It will take us less than half an hour to get to the base of the fort with the boat, at the corner of the wall where there’s no danger of being seen. And if my brother doesn’t appear by the time we agreed on, I will try—yes, I will try to go in and get him.”

      “Yes, my son, yes. Because if he doesn’t get away tonight, we’ll never see him again—never!”

      The time had come. With Horeb and Ahmet leading the way, they went down the narrow road leading to the market. Djemma followed them, hiding in the shadows whenever they came across a group of people. They might have been unlucky enough to meet Sergeant Nicol, and it was crucial that he not recognize her.

      After they reached the outskirts of the oasis there would be no more danger, and if they stayed close to the base of the dunes they would not meet a living soul until they came to the marabout.

      A little later, Sohar and Harrig left the cabaret. They knew where the bazaar merchant’s boat was located and they preferred that he not go with them. He might be noticed by some passerby walking late at night.

      It was now about nine o’clock. Sohar and his friend went back up toward the fort and skirted its southern wall.

      The bordj seemed quiet both inside and out. Any noise would have been heard, for the air was still, without a breath of wind. It was also dark, for the sky was covered from one horizon to the other with thick, heavy, motionless clouds.

      It was not until they reached the beach that Sohar and Harrig encountered any activity. Fishermen were going by, some returning home with their catch, others going back to their boats to head out into the gulf. Here and there, lights pierced the darkness, criss-crossing in all directions. Half a kilometer away, the cruiser Chanzy made its presence known by its powerful searchlights, which sent out luminous tracks across the surface of the water.

      Taking care to avoid the fishermen, the two Tuareg headed for a breakwater under construction at the end of the port.

      The merchant’s boat was tied up at the foot of the breakwater. An hour earlier, as planned, Harrig had checked to make sure it was there. There were two oars under the seats, and all they had to do was get on board.

      Just as Harrig was about to pull in the grapnel, Sohar put a hand on his arm. Two customs officials, on watch along that part of the shoreline, were coming their way. They might know who the owner of the boat was and be surprised to see Sohar and his comrade taking possession of it. It was better not to arouse suspicion, to keep their project as much in the dark as possible. The customs officials would certainly have asked Sohar what they were doing with a boat that did not belong to them, and since they had no fishing gear they could not have passed themselves off as fishermen.

      So they quickly ran back up the beach and crouched against the breakwater, out of sight.

      They stayed there a good half hour, and it is not hard to imagine how impatient they felt when they saw that the customs men seemed to be in no hurry to leave. Would they be on duty there all night? No, at last they went on their way.

      Sohar walked across the sand, and, as soon as the customs officials had disappeared in the darkness, he called to his friend to join him.

      They hauled the boat as far as the beach. Harrig got in first, then Sohar stowed the grapnel in the bow and followed him.

      They quickly fitted the two oars into the oarlocks and gently rowed the boat past the pierhead of the breakwater and along the base of the prison wall, where the waters of the gulf lapped against it.

      In a quarter of an hour Harrig and Sohar had rounded the corner of the stronghold and stopped directly beneath the opening of the drain through which Hadjar would try to escape.

      At that moment the Tuareg chieftain was alone in the cell in which he was to spend his final night. An hour earlier, the prison guard had left him and drawn the heavy bolt, locking the door of the little courtyard adjoining the cell. With the extraordinary patience typical of the Arabs, whose fatalism is combined with complete self-control under all circumstances, Hadjar was waiting for the moment to act. He had heard the Chanzy fire her cannon. He knew the cruiser had arrived and that he would be taken on board the next day, never again to see this region of chotts and sebkha, this land of the Djerid! But his Muslim resignation was combined with the hope that he would succeed in his attempt. He was certain he could escape through that narrow passage, but had his friends been able to get a boat? Would they be waiting for him at the base of the wall?

      An hour went by. From time to time Hadjar left his cell, went over to the entrance to the drain, and listened. The sound made by a boat scraping against the wall would have come through to him clearly, but he heard nothing. He returned to his cell, where he remained absolutely still.

      Sometimes, fearful that he might be taken aboard the cruiser during the night, Hadjar listened at the door of the little courtyard to see if he could hear the footsteps of a prison guard. Complete silence reigned all around the bordj, broken only occasionally by the footsteps of a sentinel walking on the platform of the fort.

      But midnight was approaching, and the arrangement with Harrig had been that by half