Erin Yorke - Desert Rogue

In the meantime, there was little Jed could do about it other than try to brush his anger aside and concentrate on the matter at hand. Calculating the strength of the forbidding sandstone walls enclosing the captives bound for slavery, he was satisfied as to the amount and placement of the explosives he had planted.

Things were under control if Ali could but accomplish the simple task that had been set him. Yet, as the overseer took Jed’s halter and led him through the slated wooden gates into the dreary interior of the holding area, Jed Kincaid felt uneasy, despite the fact that he didn’t expect to be here for very long. The sight of the towering walls and the restless milling about of men, some of them with eyes full of hatred and others wearing an expression bereft of hope, caused the fine hairs on the back of his neck to rise ominously.

It was only his natural abhorrence of confinement that made him feel as he did, Jed reminded himself—that and his perception of what it would feel like to be actually destined for the slave block the next morning. Ignoring the vivid workings of his imagination, Jed affected a dejected shuffle behind the overseer. The wandering adventurer knew that his accelerated heartbeat and the rushing of his blood gave him a decided edge. Everyone else confined in the pens would be momentarily stunned when the unexpected occurred. He would be ready. His hardened body would be prepared to spring into rapid action like the great cats that roamed this region.

When the overseer finally released his grip on the rope around the American’s neck and pushed him tumbling forward, Jed remained crouched, a seemingly defeated captive. Though the sight of a white man was not totally uncommon, a few curious eyes lit upon the Caucasian in their midst. But no one saw Jed extract the blade concealed in his boot top and begin his furtive shredding of the heavy rope binding his wrists. His slumping shoulders and curled body simply marked him as one more cowed bit of humanity unable to adjust to the miserable fate that had befallen him.

Perhaps her mistake had been trying to speak to all the women at once, Victoria considered. If she could prevail on one or two at a time, they might be more receptive to her urgings. She studied the more reserved females huddled by the far wall, their posture clearly revealing their anxiety. Cowed by their situation, they might be ready to consider any alternative, no matter how rash. Victoria straightened her spine, rose to her feet and began to move about the enclosure, her hesitant steps and frequent changes of direction mirroring the actions of many of the captives.

Nearing a mocha-skinned girl no more than fourteen, Victoria lingered to share a few whispered words of encouragement.

“You are helpless only if you believe it so,” she said, uttering the words softly, first in English and then French. A brief flicker of hope crossed the child’s face, and though she made no verbal response, her dark eyes studied Victoria carefully.

More confident, Victoria approached the next woman, speaking her message quietly and then continuing her erratic path about the pen to her next target. She was pleased a few women she’d addressed were standing a bit taller and watching her closely as she rested for a while before beginning yet another circuit of the area.

She had just started her fourth ramble when a guard came up, waving his arms and berating her, clearly agitated by her behavior.

“No talk, English! Walk or sit, but no talking together,” he ordered, scattering the women with his shouts.

“But most women talk when they are frightened. I do no harm.”

“Talk with me,” suggested the Sudanese, his fingers stroking her pale cheek. “I would soothe your nerves.”

“Isn’t your duty to protect the merchandise, not abuse it?” she demanded, slapping his hand away.

“Hunger and thirst will soften your mood before long,” warned the guard harshly. “I could make it easier for you.”

“The white woman is right,” challenged a voice from behind Victoria. “Go back to your post, dog. She does not need help from the likes of you.”

“Before Allah, I wish to see you proud wenches when your master’s whips have tamed you. Your cries will be far different then,” snorted the sentry, turning away in annoyance.

“Thank you,” murmured Victoria to the large woman who had spoken up on her behalf. She was surprised to see her defender was not one of those to whom she had whispered earlier.

“Do not thank me. Tell me what we can do to be free of here,” the stranger urged as others pressed in close upon them. “If you think it possible, maybe there is hope of escape.”

“Of course there is hope,” assured Victoria, daring to believe it for the first time since entering the pens. “My fiancé and half the British Army are on their way to the city this very minute. If we can only...”

* * *

Jed had reduced his bonds to a single strand of hemp that could be easily broken when he sensed a disturbance. Fearing that some watchful sentinel had seen him, he cautiously lifted his dark head. But there was no one glaring at him, nor could he discern any reason for the threatening curses that had been uttered. None of his guards appeared to think anything was amiss.

It was then that he heard a forceful but feminine voice coming from the other side of the wall that separated male from female slaves. The speaker was giving vent to frustrated anger, and Jed lifted an eyebrow in silent approval of the fiery woman who maintained enough spirit to revolt under such trying circumstances. His approbation quickly deteriorated to condemnation, however, when he realized the loud protest was being lodged in fluent English. These strident, haranguing tones, inciting others to riot, had to belong to Hayden Reed’s fiancée. By Zobeir’s account, she was the only white female currently imprisoned here.

Damnation, his fireworks hadn’t started yet, but this carping, insistent female had begun an explosion all her own.

If good old Vicky didn’t quiet down soon, she’d likely find herself chained to a post somewhere. Not that she didn’t deserve it for calling attention to herself just when he wanted her to be ignored, but such a punishment would make the escape he had planned all the more difficult.

Turning to watch three guards walk the perimeter of the walls, Jed hoped that Victoria Shaw would be more docile during the flight he had plotted across the desert. Their ride would be hot enough without some nagging woman making things more heated. But he shouldn’t have to worry, Jed assured himself. Victoria Shaw’s temperament was no doubt something he could handle. In his experience, women had always been only too happy to do his bidding.

Sidling over to the barrier between the two slave pens, Jed saw that he was in luck. Apparently it was chow time. Four more men had entered the area, one carrying sacks of fruit and the flat bread indigenous to the region, and another laboring under a large skin of water. The final two acted as additional guards.

Immediately the inmates began to move to the spot where the food and drink was being distributed, while the sentries on the walls turned both their attention and their rifles in that direction. Not one of them thought anything of the new man standing aloof in the shadows. In time, he would know thirst and hunger, even if misery dulled his appetite for the moment.

As the voices of the captives rose in plaintive pleas for sustenance, Jed prayed that Ali would be able to hear his signal above the din. The distraction made this moment seem the best time to move. Suddenly the first seven notes of a shrill rendition of “Yankee Doodle” rent the air. The guards shifted their weapons in Jed’s direction, and he pretended to tremble so pitifully that the Sudanese decided they must have been mistaken. One so cowardly would not cause a disturbance in the pens. The noise must have come from the market square on the other side of the wall. Thinking no more of it, they turned back to watch over the others clamoring for food and drink.