Eleven

They stopped to water their camels at the closest oasis, which turned out not to be the well of Bir Kheg, like Tintin had thought. That well lay over forty five miles away. They went slowly but steadily; the camels kept their plodding, ponderous pace under the blazing sun. By the time the sky had begun to darken they were over half-way to the well, and only three days from the city of Bagghar. Bagghar was one of the largest ports in Morocco, and the next port of call for the Karaboudjan. If they were to find the Karaboudjan anywhere, the Captain had insisted, they would find her there, and Tintin found himself agreeing.

In any case, he thought to himself, I can ditch the Captain there with no regrets. There's a big airport there, and a port. He can make his own way home and I can continue the chase without fear of his drunken stupidity.

The Captain had been quiet since they'd left the British army outpost. After their initial conversation he'd hung back, leaving Tintin to make conversation with their Middle Eastern Muslim guides.

Behind the trio, the Captain reached into his saddle pack and pulled out a bottle of port as quietly as he could. He didn't want anyone to know he'd nicked a couple of bottles from Lieutenant Delacourt's office, and he certainly didn't want Tintin to see him getting drunk in the company of Muslims, after his previous condemnation of the Lieutenant for doing the same. But it was just so boring here. Miles and miles of sand for as far as the eye could see. Every so often there was a rock. He felt like he was on the world's dullest sightseeing holiday. Might as well get drunk: at least it broke the monotony and livened things up.

He raised the bottle and took a sneaky swallow, gulping down a couple of mouthfuls as quickly as he could. Vaguely, he heard a loud pop, and then he was covered in glass and liquid. He opened his eyes and realised he was holding air. The bottle was gone, and he couldn't figure out quite what had happened.

"Berbers!" one of the guides shouted. "Quick, over here!" He led them to a large dune and forced his camel to its knees. "We must dismount," he was saying. The Captain's stomach lurched as his own camel, clearly following the rest of the pack's lead, dipped forward and kneeled down. He tumbled off as the saddle swayed with the action. In a heartbeat he was on his feet again, brushing the broken glass from his chest and seizing his rifle – and a new bottle – from his pack. "Scoundrels!" he shouted. "Barbarians! No respect!"

"And the Lieutenant said this area was safe," Tintin said wryly as he scrambled into position. He dropped to his stomach and crawled up to the top of the dune. Peeking over the top, he took careful aim. He was only visible for a second, but that was all it took as one of the Berbers chose him as a target and started shooting. Gun cocked and ready, Tintin raised his head again and found the man that had picked him out. He steadied his aim and loosed off a single shot. The bullet found its mark, kicking sand up into the Berber's face. With a grin, Tintin quickly fired another shot. This time, the bullet was even closer, almost hitting the Berber's rifle and blinding him with a cloud of fine sand. The man swore loudly in Arabic and ducked out of sight.

"Not bad shooting, huh, Snowy?" Tintin asked happily.

Unbeknownst to them, one of the attacking Berbers had crawled around behind them and was taking up position. He waited for a few seconds, scanning his enemies as he decided which one was more dangerous. Tintin, he decided, was the best shot of all of them, and should therefore be removed from the situation as soon as possible. He took a deep breath and took careful aim.

His first shot went wide, smashing the bottle of whisky the Captain had propped in the sand between himself and Tintin. The Captain stared at the remnants, his jaw dropping in shock. He felt its loss keenly.

"Damn it!" Tintin turned over and sat up, aiming his rifle at the new threat. He took a few shots but they went over the Berber's head as the man stood up and, in a crouch, retreated to a safer distance.

The Captain couldn't stop staring at the broken bottle. That was two. Two bottles in less than five minutes. Gone. Just like that. All gone, with no thought to anyone. "You bastards," he said softly. "You utter, utter bastards!"

"There's too many," Tintin said urgently as he reloaded his gun. "I think it's time to start praying, Captain. Captain?" He looked around. The Captain was holding a handful of wet sand, watching as clumps of it fell from his grasp.

"That was the last of the whisky," the Captain said in a strangely calm voice. "There's no more whisky."

"The hell with your whisky, Captain," Tintin cried. "Start shooting!"

"Revenge," said the Captain.

"What? Your gun, Captain, use your gun!"

"Revenge!"

"Captain" –

"Revenge!" The Captain jumped up, holding his rifle by the barrel, and ran towards the Berbers. Tintin watched, dumbfounded. "Swine! Jellyfish! Tramp-balls! Troglodytes! Bastards!"

"Captain! What are you doing? You'll get yourself killed!" Tintin shouted. "Get down! For the love of God, get down!"

"Aztecs! Toads! Carpet-baggers! Iconoclasts!"

Bullets whizzed over his head and around him, blurring the air but miraculously missing him. "What saint watches over drunkards?" Tintin asked in awe.

"Rats! Ectoplasms! Fresh-water swabs! Cannibals! Bashi-bazouks! Catepillars!"

Tintin watched, amazed, as the Berbers jumped up one by one and ran from the Captain. "Great snakes! He's got them on the run!" The Captain, a tiny figure in the distance, chased them barefoot over the sand still swinging his rifle as a club. The Berbers scrambled over the top of a far dune and disappeared from sight. The Captain made it to the top and sent a final flurry of curses after them. He cut a dashing figure – almost Laurence of Arabia-like – as he shouted; "Yeah, you'd better run, you pack of pockmarks! And if you come back you'll feel my rifle butt!" He swung his rifle viciously, and managed to bash himself in the back of the head. Tintin was on his feet and running towards him as the Captain toppled forward. By the time he'd reached him, the man was sitting up and rubbing his head.

"You did it, Captain! You did it!" Tintin shouted in delight. "You were wonderful!"

"Did I get 'em all?" the Captain asked. "What about the one that snuck up behind me and tried to bash my brains in? The pirate!" They jumped at a loud whooping noise that sounded behind them, and the top of the dune exploded into a cloud of dust as Lieutenant Delacourt appeared with his men, each atop a camel. "Charge!" the Lieutenant shouted. "After them! Take them prisoner!"

"Oh," said the Captain. "It's him. Then… then it wasn't me that got rid of them? It was the Lieutenant?"

"Don't worry, Captain," Tintin said, patting the man on the arm, "you're still my hero!"

The Lieutenant wheeled his camel around and trotted back to them. "We showed up in the nick of time, what-what?" he asked with a grin.

"What are you doing here?" Tintin asked, craning his neck to get a better view of the man. "I thought we were on our own."

The Lieutenant dismounted easily, simply dropping down from the camel's back without waiting for it to kneel. "We got a warning from HQ about raiders near Kefheir," he explained. "We jumped into the saddle right away and here we are. As soon as my men return with the prisoners we'll all ride north together. Believe me, with my boys with you, you'll have no more trouble!"

x

The Lieutenant was as good as his word, and Tintin and the Captain found themselves in the middle of a heaving caravan of camel riders. It was strange, they thought, to see British army soldiers in full uniform on the backs of bored camels, but the Lieutenant said that it was the easiest form of transport in the desert.

"The armoured vehicles are safer," he said thoughtfully, "but they break down too easily. The sand gets everywhere, and if you find yourself stranded without an engineer you're as good as dead. Camels never break down, and as long as you have a gun and know where to find water, you'll arrive safely."

That night they made camp under the clear, open sky. The stars shine brighter here than back home, Tintin thought.

"No other lights," the Captain said. They were sitting apart from the others, who were horsing around and letting off steam, or guarding the small camp from hostile outsiders and scavengers. "It's the same as out at sea. Once you get away from the cities and the lights and the noise, the sky clears and you can see all the stars."

"Do you know them?" Tintin asked curiously.

The Captain shrugged. "A few. More than most, I suppose."

"I suppose you have to learn, when you are at sea?"

The Captain gave him a funny look. "Why?"

"For navigation?"

"No, that's what the Global Positioning System does. And maps."

"But don't you have to chart your position using the stars?"

"What am I? A bloody pirate or something? No, I just use the computer!" The Captain started to snigger. "You do realise that ships have come a long way since the eighteen hundreds, right?"

Tintin grinned. "I guess I prefer to think that sailors still use the stars to keep on course."

"Romantic bull… Hooey."

"Bull-hooey?"

"Moderating my language," the Captain said morosely.

"It's not as good as 'blistering barnacles'," Tintin replied. "I like that one."

"You leave my barnacles alone. So what's your story?" the Captain asked.

"I don't have one," Tintin said idly. "I'm just the guy who was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"You could just go home," the Captain suggested.

"I'm a reporter: we don't just 'go home'," Tintin said with a laugh. "We find out what's going on first."

"How long have you been a reporter?"

"A while now. I started out in France and went back to Belgium when I went free-lance." Tintin brought his knees up under his chin and hugged them to his chest. It was cold now that the sun was gone. "Why did you name your ship Karaboudjan?"

The Captain shook his head, his face sad. "My black spirit. It just summed up how I felt about the world."

"What happened to make your spirit so black? Do you mind me asking?"

"No. Uh. I guess it was after my divorce. She got pretty much everything. Including our friends. I bought a ship, named it, and buggered off." He lay back and watched the stars overhead. A second later, Tintin lay down too. They stayed like that, side by side and comfortable. "So what's your deal?" the Captain asked. "You married? Seeing anyone?"

"There's a girl I like," Tintin offered hesitantly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"What's she like?"

"She's very pretty."

"Really?" The Captain sounded surprised. "Are you sure you're not hitting above your weight?"

"Why do you say that?" Tintin asked, puzzled.

"Y'know: you're a ginger and that. Girls don't go for gingers."

"Do they go for well-travelled, cultured men that earn good money and live in a nice flat in the better part of town?"

"Yeah, they go for that," the Captain agreed. He was silent for a moment before asking; "Does she have daddy issues?"

Tintin thought for a moment. "I don't know," he said suspiciously. "Why?"

"Listen to me, lad," the Captain said seriously. He turned his head so he could look at Tintin. "I'm going to give you the same advice my dad gave me: if you find a girl with daddy issues, don't get into a relationship with her. Just shag her a few times and move on."

"Oh my lord!"

"It's the God's honest truth. Those girls are crazy, lad, but they've got something to prove to daddy when it comes to sex. Just keep them away from sharp implements and don't introduce them to your parents."

"That's awful!"

"Awfully true."

"Goodnight, Captain," Tintin said firmly.

"G'night."

x

They reached Bagghar a few days later, and said goodbye to the Lieutenant and his men before entering the city. It was a large port city on the coast of Morocco; vibrant and wild and teeming with people. It was smaller than Marrakech, but just as beautiful, retaining the thin, winding streets and decorative stone arches familiar to Morocco's cities. The heart of Bagghar was the market, which was right beside the expansive docks. They strolled through the wooden stalls and crowds of shoppers and hawkers on their second day in the city.

The air was filled with unfamiliar, tantalising scents. Strange spices and herbs mixed with the stinging sent of tanned leather and tangy fruits, and above it all was the strong smell of the ocean and fresh fish. It felt good to be clean after their time in the desert, and it felt even better to be in fresh clothing that didn't stink of their own sweat.

"We should find the harbour master first," Tintin said.

The Captain nodded in agreement. "Good idea," he said. "They can give us some news about the Karaboudjan."

"Do we still think it didn't sink?"

"I don't believe it for a second. Oooh! Shrunken monkey hands! Do you think they give you three wishes?" The Captain made for a stall where several shrivelled monkey hands were laid out on faded, tacky muslin. "Although," he continued, "the wishes will eventually bite you on the arse. Did you ever read that story?"

Silence. The old man behind the stall looked at him strangely. The Captain turned around to face Tintin, but the lad was gone. "Tintin?" he asked. Oh my God. I've dreamed this entire thing, haven't I? He was never there: he was a figment of my imagination; a spirit sent to me to guide me to – Oh, there he is!

He stood on tiptoes and watched as Tintin, with Snowy running alongside him, disappeared into the crowd ahead. "Tintin!" he called loudly. "Tintin! Where are you going?" People were starting to look at him. As nonchalantly as possible, the Captain took off after his friend.

Author's Note: Sorry for the late update. And for some reason I always imagined that the Captain would give terrible dating advice. I'm not quite sure why...