Chapter 2
BROKEN BARRELS
Finally, Captain D’Arlan turned away from the window. He stared intently at the thin, pale face of Colonel Le Clerq, as if seeking a reaction there. But the old colonel’s face was completely expressionless.
“What do you think of this story about the white woman, mon Colonel?” asked D’Arlan, unable to conceal the anxiety in his voice.
“I have no other choice but to believe it, mon Capitaine,” said the colonel, and D’Arlan sank wearily into a chair. “This Private Podolski is in his full senses,” the colonel continued, “and I cannot see why he would tell a lie about such a thing. He is known in the Legion as a brave, resourceful, and reliable soldier.”
“But who and what can she be?” asked D’Arlan.
Le Clerq shrugged his narrow shoulders and tilted his head. It was a gesture of ignorance regarding this phenomenon of a white woman apparently leading a band of barbaric Arabs.
“All I am entirely sure of, D’Arlan,” said the colonel, “is that we are dealing with a dangerous phenomenon here. Somehow this wretched white witch must have ended up among them, and now they naturally regard her as a white goddess sent by Mohammed to deliver them from the hands of the white heathens. You know what that means. If we don’t put an end to this reign of terror soon, tomorrow or the day after we’ll be dealing with a holy war that could set the whole of French Morocco ablaze. This phenomenon of a white woman among them is all these sheep need to believe that she will bring deliverance from the yoke of France that awaits them. I tell you, D’Arlan, this white witch is capable of causing the greatest uprising in Morocco that either of us has ever seen.”
Le Clerq quickly stood up from his chair, went to the wall, and rolled down the large map hanging there.
“We shall have to do something, D’Arlan,” the colonel said to the lean captain, who had also risen and followed him towards the wall.
“But what, mon Colonel?” inquired D’Arlan.
Le Clerq made circles with his pencil around a few places on the wall map and said, “There is only one thing to do, D’Arlan, and that is to attack this filth in their lairs.”
“To detach enough men for that will mean dangerously weakening the garrison here, mon Colonel, and how do we know how far this woman has already ignited fires among the other tribes?”
“I know, D’Arlan... I know... But there is no other alternative,” said the weathered colonel irritably. “What else is there to do? We cannot sit here with folded hands while these devils incarnate do as they please. Their blockade is so effective that the local Arabs will soon rise in revolt. And what will Algiers think of me if one caravan after another is wiped out in this gruesome manner?”
He suddenly looked at D’Arlan, and there was a glint in his eyes. The old fighting spirit that had made him the fear of the Arab tribes glittered again in Le Clerq’s eyes. He thrust his small fist menacingly into the air. “We will smoke them out, D’Arlan. We will smoke them out.”
With the pencil, he gestured again on the map. “Here,” said the colonel, “is the small oasis El Soer. It is situated not far from the foothills of the Atlas Mountains. We shall make this oasis the base of our operations against the Doelaks, D’Arlan.”
“It is a dangerous plan, mon Colonel,” said D’Arlan, “but it is apparently the only plan. From the oasis El Soer, one can reach their hiding places in the Atlas Mountains.”
“I am grateful that you
