Rawhide Robinson Rides a Dromedary

by Rod Miller

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  * * *

  The Port of Kingston on the island of Jamaica was busy, bustling, boisterous, and hurly-burly with much hubbub, buzz, fuss, and flurry. On any given day, one could locate ships from the seven seas, six continents, and four corners of the earth berthed there. Hurry, ever curious and constantly on the hunt for unfamiliar and exhilarating opportunities, was in heaven.

  The USS Cordwood stopped over there to refresh and replenish supplies and stores for the last leg of the journey home, and the sailors and officers were given shore leave. Likewise, Rawhide Robinson, Happy Harry, Hurry, and even ornery Ibrahim were free to come and go at their pleasure.

  After a quick canvass of Kingston, Hurry hatched an idea. She hashed it over with Happy Harry. Recounted it to Rawhide Robinson. Conversed with Captain Clemmons. Mentioned it to Major Wayne. Elicited Ensign Ian’s approval. All gave their blessing to the notion—even expressing admiration for her entrepreneurial spirit—and pitched in with the few preparations required.

  Several sailors assisted by disseminating information up and down the wharf and in the streets and squares of the city. Word spread. Excitement mounted. Interest accelerated. Eagerness expanded. Anticipation enlarged. Enthusiasm increased.

  And the curious from throughout Kingston congregated. Stevedores and roustabouts, sailors and seaman, slaves and servants, sales clerks and shopkeepers, tradesmen and chambermaids, peons and pencil pushers, beggars and bankers, the prostitute and the parvenu, the filthy rich and the merely filthy all lined up to board the Cordwood to see the wonders there—wonders never before seen in Kingston, despite its standing as one of the world’s most cosmopolitan seaports.

  A steady stream of people paraded up and down the gangplanks and through the gangways, and into Hurry’s hamper went admittance fees in coin and currency from across the continents: dollars, drachmas, and ducats, pounds and pesos, rupees, reals, and rubles, francs and florins, escudos and schillings, wén and mon, lira and guilders, tael and thalers, all these and more aggregated, accumulated, and amassed in the basket.

  Those awaiting entrance were eager, those departing pleased. None was disappointed and none regretted the price of admission. Some saw fit to shell out for a second, even third and fifth opportunity to experience the exotic allure offered aboard the ship.

  Plenteous people—nay, a plethora of patrons—paid for the simple pleasure of filing past an exhibition representative of the USS Cordwood’s unusual cargo. They were first exposed to a few ordinary dromedaries which, to the viewers, were an extraordinary sight. Hurry and Happy Harry stood by to answer inquiries concerning the camels—their propensities and proclivities, appearance and appetites, behaviors and habits, idiosyncrasies and peculiarities, and more.

  But the best was yet to come.

  The pinnacle of the performance, the high point of the exhibition, the pièce de résistance of the display was the disparity, the disproportion, the contrast and comparison of the species provided by the side-by-side spectacle of Tulu and Okyanus.

  One large, one small. One short, one tall. One massive, the other minute. One tiny, one towering. One enormous, the other diminutive. One capacious, one picayune. The distinctions were both amusing and educational, and the audience enjoyed each aspect. It is impossible to say which of the pair proved more popular—the stately Tulu or the cute Okyanus. Regardless, all who regarded the assemblage retired gratified.

  It should be mentioned, as well, that even the ordinarily ornery Ibrahim got into the spirit of the occasion and elevated the experience for the audience. He outfitted Tulu in his royal accoutrements and he, himself, dressed in the finery he had worn when parading around with the pasha’s camels during Ottoman excursions, activities, and exhibitions. The colorful silks and satins, fringes and fandangles, beads and baubles, embellishments and adornments added to the enjoyment of all.

  Through it all, enjoyment of a different kind visited the Cordwood’s crew. Officers and sailors alike were given shore leave while awaiting the resupply of the ship and the hosting of the ungulate exhibit. The grog shops of Kingston enjoyed their presence and patronage—especially in light of the fact that their usual clientele was obsessed with dromedaries—and the men enjoyed a respite from shipboard routine.

  Rawhide Robinson, no stranger to adventure, enjoyed roaming the streets of Kingston and the surrounding countryside. Like any cowboy, he never walked when he could ride, so ride he did. A rented horse from a local livery served him well. He dusted off a rented saddle, strapped on his spurs, buckled on his chaps, snugged down his thirteen-gallon hat and lit out to see the sights.

  The presence of an American cowboy in Kingston was every bit as peculiar as the camels aboard the Cordwood, and Rawhide Robinson drew curious stares everywhere he ventured. Pelted with questions, engulfed with appeals, overwhelmed with interest, the horseman was ever polite and accommodating while making every effort to escape the scrutiny.

  He rode to the top of Strawberry Hill to enjoy panoramic views of Kingston and the Blue Mountains. He rode the skittish horse across the cast-iron bridge over the Rio Cobre. He rode out the peninsula—the Palisadoes—to Port Royal to visit the ruined Fort Charles. He rode through Spanish Town to appreciate the architecture. He rode anywhere the wind took him, delighted to be back in the saddle after months afoot and at sea. He only wished for a herd of cattle as the itch to return to his accustomed career was overwhelming. Even so, the simple act of being aboard a horse and feeling the wind whip his earlobes as he loped the island pony up and down the beach brought abundant pleasure and, in the circumstances, was as good as it was going to get.

  Alack and alas, Rawhide Robinson was reminded of the truth of Chaucer’s words: “There is an end to everything, to good things as well.” And, all too soon, he was back aboard the USS Cordwood. Which, in itself, when seen through a wider lens, when taking a broader view, when looking at the big picture, when seeing a larger perspective, in the grand scheme of things, was good—no, great—news.

  For it would only be about a week until the wandering cowboy would once again set foot on the soil of his beloved Texas.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  * * *

  By the time the Matagorda peninsula came into view, Rawhide Robinson had all but crawled out onto the bowsprit of the USS Cordwood to get a glimpse of his homeland. His enthusiasm was infectious, and Hurry was as excited as her cowboy friend. The ship heeled into Pass Cavallo, leaving the Gulf of Mexico and entering Matagorda Bay. Indian Point, at the entrance of Powderhorn Bayou, was the destination, home to the port of Indianola.

  As soon as the ship dropped anchor and a boat was lowered to take Captain Clemmons ashore to make arrangements for a berth, Rawhide Robinson, with an eager Hurry in tow, cadged a seat in the launch. The girl watched with amusement as the cowboy scrambled up the ladder ashore, dropped to his knees and kissed the quay.

  “I’ve been away from home for months and months and I am plumb overjoyed to be back in the good old U.S. of A!” he explained. “C’mon, Hurry!”

  The unlikely couple drew more than a few curious glances as they hustled along the wharf toward the town of Indianola. The wharf and the streets were busy and bustling. Boxes and barrels, crates and kegs, drays and wagons, pushcarts and carriages, and—in vast numbers and large quantities—cotton bales were everywhere.

  Before long, Rawhide Robinson slid to a halt at the feet of a street vendor and flipped her a coin. A wide grin spread across the cowboy’s face as a cloud of aromatic steam rose when the woman lifted the cloth covering a clay pot.

  “They’re called tamales,” he explained as Hurry curiously eyed the corn-husked bundle he handed her. “They taste like heaven.”

  She nibbled cautiously at the husk.

  “No, girl! You don’t eat that part. Here, peel it back,” he said as he demonstrated. “Now, take a chomp on that.”

  Still careful, she mouthed a morsel of masa while Rawhide Robinson gnawed off half his tamale in
a single bite. Soon she, too, was wolfing down the comestible with enthusiasm. “It is good!” she said.

  Another coin brought another serving of the treats.

  Then another.

  Hurry hungered for yet another, and looked longingly back at the vendor as she hurried up the dusty street in Rawhide Robinson’s footsteps. His path soon veered into the open door of a cantina and before Hurry sat down, he called for chili.

  Again, the girl studied the sizzling stew and stack of toasty tortillas with trepidation. And again, she was soon scooping and shoveling and dipping and dunking with enthusiasm. While the savor and flavor, the spices and seasonings, the textures and tastes were far removed from her favorite Levantine vittles, she appreciated the piquancy and pungency, and the way her tongue and throat tingled from the tang of chili peppers.

  It was much the same with the burritos and enchiladas, the tostadas and tacos, the guacamole and frijoles. Hurry was soon overstuffed and eager for more. Instead, the plump pair waddled to the town square and shaded up under a ramada for a rejuvenating nap.

  The Cordwood was going about the business of tying up at a slip when the contented cowboy and gratified girl returned to the wharf. Hurry regaled Happy Harry with reports and reviews of the local cuisine as she and he and Ibrahim and Rawhide Robinson and the assigned sailors groomed the dromedaries for the final time aboard the ship. Major Benjamin Wayne arrived as the halters were hung on the camels, coming back aboard after securing accommodations for the animals and contacting his superiors at the War Department to report the safe arrival of the cargo.

  “Robinson, Harry, come with me if you please,” the major said.

  They met in Captain Howard Clemmons’s quarters, where the officer and Ensign Ian Scott were already huddled in a cloud of Clemmons’s pipe smoke.

  “Welcome, gentlemen,” Clemmons said. “Major, the matter we discussed has been dealt with. I have been in contact with the Navy Department by telegraph. It is all arranged.”

  “Excellent,” Wayne said. “Robinson, Harry, this involves you, which is why I invited you here.”

  Rawhide Robinson looked at Happy Harry.

  Happy Harry looked at Rawhide Robinson.

  Rawhide Robinson and Happy Harry looked at Major Wayne.

  Major Wayne looked at Captain Clemmons.

  Happy Harry and Rawhide Robinson looked at Captain Clemmons.

  Captain Clemmons said, “The matter at hand pertains to Ensign Ian Scott.”

  Captain Clemmons, Major Wayne, Rawhide Robinson, and Happy Harry looked at Ensign Scott.

  “Ensign Scott,” Clemmons said, “has requested detached service from the United States Navy and his request has been granted.”

  “Ensign Scott,” Wayne said, “has requested temporary assignment with my command to continue assisting with the camel operation.”

  “This news makes me happy!” Happy Harry said.

  “Why, that is right good news!” Rawhide Robinson said. “I’m tickled pink to think of Ensign Ian as our cock-a-doodle-do.”

  Ensign Scott looked flummoxed.

  Happy Harry looked baffled.

  Captain Clemmons looked confused.

  “Cock-a-doodle-do?” Major Wayne said. “What does the call of a rooster have to do with it? What are you talking about?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Major. It’s cowboy lingo. Lots of times, the big man on a ranch, say the owner or manager, is the jefe or ‘old man’ or ramrod. That would be you, meanin’ no disrespect. Second in command, the foreman, he’d be the segundo or straw boss—or, sometimes, cock-a-doodle-do. Sounds like that’ll be Ensign Ian from here on.

  “I am of the opinion that this here youngster has proved himself a good man and worthy of the title, frivolous as it may seem to you what ain’t cowboys. But for us in the saddle, it signifies his being a good man. Means he’s dependable. A man you can trust. When workin’ cattle there’s a thousand things can happen, and 999 of them’s bad. So, you want the man givin’ orders to be willing to step up and handle whatever comes.

  “But there ain’t none of that makes no never mind. Let’s leave it that it’ll be good to have Ensign Ian along as cock-a-doodle-do of this here outfit.”

  Ensign Scott crimsoned with the compliment and despite his voluminous vocabulary could find no words for the occasion.

  “Good enough,” Wayne said.

  “I might add,” Captain Clemmons said, “that Ensign Scott is no longer Ensign Scott—he has been promoted to lieutenant junior grade, and should hereafter be addressed as Lieutenant Scott.”

  “Well done,” said the major.

  “Good show!” said Happy Harry.

  “Well! Congratulations are in order, Ensign Ian,” Rawhide Robinson said.

  “That’s ‘Lieutenant’ Ian,” the newly promoted officer said.

  “All right Lieutenant, Robinson, Harry—let’s see to the animals,” Wayne said, and the men paraded off to the main deck of the USS Cordwood.

  “You know, Ensign Ian,” Rawhide Robinson said, looking around at the ship that had been his home these many months. “I’m gonna miss this old boat.”

  “Ship,” the young officer corrected. “And it’s Lieutenant.”

  “One question—your request to stick with the camels wouldn’t have anything to do with our girl Hurry, would it?”

  The newly minted lieutenant said not a word, but turned the color of a copper penny.

  Major Wayne walked up and down the rows of camels arranged on the deck, each with halter and packsaddle in place, as if inspecting infantry troops. He seemed pleased with the successful accomplishment of this phase of his mission. The ship had left the Levant with thirty-three healthy camels and arrived on American shores with thirty-four—albeit one of them being but a youngster.

  “Men,” he said to the sailors handling the camels, “your service to our cause is most appreciated. You have, on this mission, undertaken duties most unfamiliar—even unique—in the annals of naval history. Your performance has been exemplary.”

  As the major addressed the men, one, if listening carefully, could hear an occasional sniffle, an uncomfortable cough. The odd tear could be seen tracing its path down a ruddy cheek.

  “We ask one final assignment of you. Corrals have been acquired to hold the camels across town, which will require marching them through the heart of Indianola. You men are to assist with the maneuver. Again, your meritorious service has been much appreciated.”

  “Sir?” a sailor said, snapping a salute.

  “Yes, Sailor?”

  “What will become of the camels after that, sir?”

  “We will hold them until a cavalry escort arrives from Camp Verde. They should be underway tomorrow and we will expect them in about a week’s time. The camels will then be taken to Camp Verde along the military road—a journey of some 200 miles. Once we arrive there, orders will come down from the War Department for deploying the camels. Mister Robinson, Harry, Ibrahim, and the girl will stay with us and oversee the training of army camel handlers and packers at Camp Verde.”

  Within minutes after the completion of the major’s remarks, the cleated gangplank connecting the Cordwood to the wharf repeatedly sagged and rebounded under the weight of the camels plodding across, their shifting weight causing the ship itself to rock in the still waters of the harbor. Once the dromedaries were offloaded and assembled on the wharf, Major Wayne gave the order to proceed. The camel caravan set off in single file, with Hurry handling the halter rope of Okyanus, bringing up the rear behind Tulu.

  The end of the procession had yet to reach the streets of Indianola when all hell broke loose.

  It started with the chickens scratching and pecking around in the dust and dirt of the streets of Indianola. As soon as the camels came in sight, the fowl flipped out. The birds went berserk. The cluckers went loco. The hens went as mad as a hatter and the roosters went round the bend. They flapped and flailed, squawked and screeched, skedaddled and skittered through the streets—a
nd, of course, chickens gone cuckoo only contributed to the cacophony and confusion created by the camels.

  A hitch of six mules on a freight wagon parked at a warehouse loading dock spooked and tore off up the road, scattering traffic as they went.

  A pair of saddle horses at a hitch rail panicked, ripping the crossbar from the rail and ran off, yoked together by the flopping pole.

  A cart capsized when the donkey drawing it decamped, spilling a load of melons into the street.

  A buckboard bashed into a porch post, collapsing the roof.

  Saddle horses bucked and ran away. Hitched horses upset their conveyances. Dogs barked. Burros brayed. Pigs squealed. People yelled and yelped, scampered and scuttled, hid and holed up, flopped and fainted.

  Major Wayne, leading the caravan causing all the commotion, could only continue on. Never, not once, had the notion that such tumult could result from the mere presence of camels occurred to him. And so, like a good soldier, he marched on through all the ruction and rumpus. The camel handlers, likewise, ducked their heads and carried on.

  The camels plodded along, calm and uncaring, placid and passive.

  “Hold it right there!” came a booming command, loud enough to be heard over all the hubbub. Standing in the middle of the street, shotgun in hand, stood a tall Texan with a star tacked to his chest.

  Major Wayne signaled a halt.

  “What in Sam Hill is goin’ on here? What’re you doin’ with them critters?” the lawman hollered.

  “They are camels, Marshal.”

  “I can see they’re camels. I seen ’em in picture books. What’re they doin’ in my town?”

  The major told the law enforcement officer that the camels were the property of the United States Army and would be billeted in town while awaiting escort to Camp Verde. A gathering crowd craned to hear the conversation.

  “Are you nuts? You ain’t keepin’ no camels around here. I won’t have ’em tearin’ up the town.”