GLIMPSES OF THE TARALUM
The voyage of the Taralum, on the days that followed, was, in essentials, one long test of patience, perseverance, and endurance, in travelling a desert of terrifying desolation.
The Bilma Desert is desert at its worst; an absolute sea of sand, destitute of the minutest object. Nothing relieves the eye, not even a morsel of the insignificance of a branch-end to hint of vegetation; and there is no living creature whatever.
Day after day, endless leagues of level, wind-rippled sand are passed and lie ahead. The desolation holds monotonous intensity; barely relieved, even by the banks of dunes which are encountered in places, softly rounded like the swing of great waves rolling to the land on a calming ocean, and petrified in the act. When it is calm the sand rests. But that is seldom, for there are two forces that are constant in the desert: wind and sun. And when the wind blows the sands of the surface are never still, and legions of particles fly before its bidding.
But to the traveller the wind is his salvation, unless it rises to a gale and brings that terror of the desert—a sandstorm. Even though hot, with the breath of the glowing sand, the wind is a measure of counteraction to the oppression of the tremendous blazing heat of the overhead sun.
Beyond all else, the desert is the Kingdom of the Sun. Of all lands where it rules, none know it in greater strength nor more pitiless mood than here. It subdues and kills; it has conquered the earth. It is antagonistic to everything that lives. It even glares on the caravans of the desert as a tyrant on foolish intruders that are prey to be destroyed. Day after day, almost without a break throughout the year, it rises, a globe of gold set in a halo, to rule through long monotonous hours, white in intensity, and ungilded when high in the sky, until the hour arrives for it to sink to rest: when it passes to another sphere followed by mutterings of relief from the tired lips of men who thank Allah that it has gone.
It was 200 miles from Tabello to Fachi, another 100 miles to Bilma; and the same distance on the return journey—600 miles in all. Fresh water for man and beast was to be obtained in the region only at these oases. By forced marches, Fachi, first in our path, was to be reached on the sixth day. All water-skins, the very life of the people of the caravan, would be empty by then, and the camels in sore need of slaking their thirst. It was no land to dally in. All sensed the danger of thirst and starvation, which was in the very sand of the desert about them. Wherefore the whole caravan pushed ever on with anxious earnestness, and with an invisible discipline peculiar to tribal traditions.
The Taralum travelled 38 to 40 miles per day: 14 to 18 hours of patient, steady plodding. There was no halt to rest animals. They carried their burdens throughout the livelong day, with the men of the caravan riding on the top of the loads. The proportion of men was one to every 5 or 7 animals; in all, about 1,100 human lives.
