African Enchantment by Margaret Pemberton Page A

prominently in his main room, then no doubt it also flew from his roof.
    Far behind her Hashim saw the route she had taken and rode hard after her, filled with sudden disquiet.
    The street narrowed, becoming crowded. Frustratedly Harriet slowed her horse to a walking pace and tried not to let the strange, strong smell overcome her. Wretchedly dressed women halted in their tasks and stared at her in amazement. Children pointed and swarmed around her so that she had to shoo them away, frightened that the smaller one would fall beneath the hooves of her horse. Above the shabby buildings, the red crescent flag fluttered nearer and nearer. At last she turned a corner in its direction and faltered. It did not fly from the Pasha’s residence, but from a vast army barracks. Instead of women and children she was suddenly surrounded by men; coarsely dressed, Sudanese soldiers who, the minute they saw her, ran leeringly in her direction. In seconds they had surrounded her, blocking her exit, shouting and laughing at each other in a language incomprehensible to her, but their intent was clear. Desperately she urged the horse forward but scores of hands were holding its head. Other hands, a sea of them, were touching her legs, her waist, trying to unseat her.
    â€˜Let go of me! Let go!’ Frenziedly she lashed out at them with her riding crop, only to arouse a fresh storm of laughter.
    Women and children surged from the alleys to watch silently. Hashim was impotent, his horse wedged in on either side by human flesh.
    There was a loud scream and above the mass of dark heads he saw Harriet pulled sideways, the horse rearing. Agilely he sprang to the ground and like an eel twisted and pushed through the gathering crowd, not towards Harriet but away, running with the speed of a gazelle in the direction of the Pasha’s residence.
    â€˜Take your hands off me!’ Her voice was a shriek as her riding crop was wrenched from her hand and she was hurled from one pair of searching hands to another.
    The men who had crowded her horse had formed a circle and were spinning her from one to another as if she were a rag doll while their less fortunate companions pushed and shoved in order to obtain a better view of the spectacle and gave encouragement by clapping wildly and stamping their feet.
    â€˜Stop it! Stop it! Oh let me go, please! Please!’
    Her distress only caused more hilarity. The pins in her hair fell free and a great cheer went up as her hair spilled from its prim braids.
    Round and round they whirled her so that without the momentum of their hands she would have fallen, sick and dizzy, tears streaming down her face. The noise, the heat, the horror intensified. The buttons were wrenched from her blouse, her heaving breasts contained only by her lace-trimmed camisole.
    â€˜No! No!’ she gasped. ‘ Please God. No!’
    Her hair was tugged, wrenching her head back, a triumphant hand seized hold of one of her breasts and in the same split second a revolver shot rang out, scattering the women and children in the alleyways, silencing the beating feet and handclaps of the men.
    The hold on her body intensified, brutal fingers digging into the soft flesh. Half senseless, held stationary, the world still spinning about her, Harriet saw the great stallion and its rider force their way through the throng. His shirt was gashed open at the throat as if he had been in the process of dressing when Hashim had reached him. His tightly trousered legs were encased in gleaming Hessian boots; his eyes were frightening, cold and hard, more menacing than the smoking revolver he held in his hand.
    The silence was momentary. There were shouts of defiance and abuse from the soldiers and several hands reached to the waists and the pistols lodged there.
    â€˜Drop your weapons to the ground or every last one of you will be court martialled and shot!’
    The voice was like a whiplash, the authority indisputable.
    With shrugs and