this outburst, Djemma dropped to her knees in a corner of the small room and fell silent.
Sohar had come back and taken up his position at the door, leaning against its frame. He was as still as if he had been made of stone, like one of those statues that sometimes decorate the entrance to a marabout. Not a sound disturbed his immobility. The shadows of the dunes gradually lengthened eastward, as the sun sank lower on the western horizon. To the east of the Gulf of Gabès the first stars were coming out. The slender crescent of the lunar disk, at the beginning of its first quarter, had just slipped behind the last mists of sunset. It would be a calm night, and dark, too, for a curtain of light vapor would hide the stars.
A little after seven, Sohar went back to his mother. “It’s time,” he said.
“Yes,” replied Djemma, “and it’s time for Hadjar to be snatched from the hands of those foreigners. He must be out of Gabès prison before sunrise. Tomorrow it will be too late.”
“Everything is ready, mother,” replied Sohar. “Our comrades are waiting for us. Those in Gabès have planned the escape. Those in the Djerid will act as Hadjar’s escort, and before another day dawns they’ll be far away in the desert.”
“And I’ll be with them,” declared Djemma. “I won’t abandon my son.”
“And I’ll be with you too,” added Sohar. “I won’t abandon my brother—or my mother.”
Djemma drew him to her and held him close in her arms. Then, adjusting the hood of her haik, she went out.
On their way to Gabès, Sohar walked a few steps ahead of his mother. Instead of following the shoreline, along the swath of sea plants left on the beach by the receding tide, they followed the base of the dunes, where they hoped to cover the kilometer and a half with less likelihood of being seen. The clump of trees at the oasis, almost lost in the deepening gloom, could be seen only vaguely. Not a light shone through the darkness. In those windowless Arab houses, only the inner courtyards receive any daylight, and after nightfall no light escapes from them.
Soon, however, a point of light appeared above the dim silhouette of the town. It was fairly intense, and must have come from the upper part of Gabès, perhaps from the minaret of a mosque, perhaps from the castle that overlooked the town.
But Sohar knew it was coming from the fort. Pointing to the light, he whispered, “The bordj (the fort).”4
“Is that the place, Sohar?”
“Yes, mother. That’s where they’ve confined him.”
The old woman had stopped. It seemed as if the light had established some kind of communication between her and her son. Perhaps it did not come from the very cell where Hadjar was imprisoned, but it certainly came from the fort to which he had been taken. Djemma had not seen her son since the fearsome leader had fallen into the hands of French soldiers, and she would never see him again unless he escaped that very night from the fate that military justice had in store for him. She stood on the spot as if transfixed, and Sohar had to urge her twice, “Come on, mother. Come on.”
They went on their way, along the base of the dunes, which curved around toward the oasis of Gabès with its cluster of villages and houses, the largest settlement on the shore of the gulf. Sohar headed for the part that the soldiers called Coquinville, or Roguetown, a collection of wooden huts inhabited by bazaar merchants (hence its well-deserved name). The village was located near the entrance to the wadi, a stream that winds this way and that through the oasis, in the shade of the palm trees. There stood the bordj, Fort Neuf, from which Hadjar would not emerge until the time came for him to be transferred to prison in Tunis.
It was from this fort that his comrades, after taking every precaution and making every preparation for escape, hoped to free him that night. They had gathered together in the huts of Coquinville, and were waiting for Djemma and her son. But extreme caution was called for, and it was better to avoid meeting anyone as they approached the village.
The wadi near Fort Neuf. (Photo by Lt. Rebut)
How anxiously they turned their eyes out to sea, fearful that the cruiser would arrive that evening and take the prisoner aboard before the escape could be carried out. They looked to see whether any white smoke was visible in the gulf, listening for the whinnying sound of a ship’s steam engine or the shrill wail of a siren which might mean a ship was coming in to dock. But they saw only the lights of the fishing boats reflected in the Tunisian waters, and no ship’s whistle rent the air.
It was not yet eight o’clock when Djemma and her son reached the bank of the wadi. Ten more minutes would bring them to the rendezvous point.
Just as they were about to start out along the right bank, a man, crouching behind the cactuses on the bank, half stood up and asked, “Sohar?”
“Is that you, Ahmet?”
“Yes. And your mother?”
“She’s right behind me.”
“And we’ll follow you,” said Djemma.
“Any news?” asked Sohar.
“Nothing,” replied Ahmet.
“Are our friends here?”
“They’re waiting for you.”
“Does anyone in the bordj suspect anything?”
“Not a soul.”
“Is Hadjar ready?”
“Yes.”
“How did they get to see him?”
“Through Harrig, who was released this morning. He’s with our comrades now.”
“Let’s go,” said the old woman, and all three walked up the wadi along its bank.
The direction they were now following made it impossible for them to see the dark mass of the fort through the thick foliage, for the oasis of Gabès is really only a very large palm grove.
Ahmet walked along the path confidently and unerringly. First they would have to pass through Djara, which lies on both sides of the wadi. In this formerly fortified village, which had been in turn Carthaginian, Roman, Byzantine, and Arab, was located the main market of Gabès. At this hour it would still be crowded with people, and Djemma and her son might have some difficulty getting through unnoticed. On the other hand, the streets of these Tunisian oases were not yet lighted by electricity or even by gas. So, except in the vicinity of a few cafés, they would be shrouded in darkness.
Nevertheless, Ahmet was very cautious and circumspect, and he continually reminded Sohar that they could not be too careful. There was a possibility that the prisoner’s mother might be known in Gabès, and that her presence might lead to increased vigilance around the fort. Although planned far in advance, carrying out this escape would be difficult, and it was important that nothing arouse the guards’ suspicions. For this reason, Ahmet chose to follow roads leading to the area adjacent to the bordj.
Further, there was a great deal of activity in the central part of the oasis as this Sunday evening was drawing to a close. In Africa, as in Europe, the last day of the week is usually a holiday in garrison towns, and especially in French garrison towns. The soldiers are given leave, sit around in the cafés, and return to their barracks late at night. The local inhabitants take part in the general hustle and bustle, especially around the bazaar with its mixture of Italian and Jewish merchants. And this hubbub goes on far into the night.
It was possible, then, that Djemma might not be unknown to the authorities in Gabès. Indeed, since her son’s arrest, she had ventured near the bordj more than once, risking her liberty and perhaps even her life. It was well known that she had had a strong influence on Hadjar, the maternal influence being so strong among the Tuareg people. Since she had urged him to revolt, she was quite capable of touching off another rebellion, either to free the prisoner or to avenge