by Wilbur Smith
‘That outburst is not at all your style, Mrs Bannock. You can do it, and if you really love your daughter you will do it.’
When Kamal’s dhow was still fifty miles offshore he broadcast a brief message on the shortwave radio.
‘The fish are running on the ten-mile reef.’ It was acknowledged at once. They had been listening out for him. Within the hour a thirty-five-foot fast motor launch left its moorings in the bay and raced out to meet the dhow. As the two vessels came together both crews ululated and waved their weapons on high.
‘Allahu Akbar! God is great!’ they shrieked, dancing on the narrow decks.
As the gap between the vessels narrowed they leaped across it and embraced wildly, stamping their bare feet on the deck. Cayla crouched in a corner of the deckhouse on the pile of rags which was her bed, listening in terror to the uproar. For eleven days she had not been allowed to bathe or change her clothes. She had been fed on a single bowl of rice and fiery chilli fish stew a day, and the water she had been given was brackish and was redolent of the sewer. She had suffered gut-wrenching diarrhoea and vomiting, a combination of food poisoning and sea sickness. Her latrine was the filthy bucket which stood beside her on the deck. The only time she had been allowed out on the main deck was to empty its contents over the ship’s side. Now the door of the deckhouse was flung open and Kamal was outlined against the brilliant sunlight behind him.
‘Get up! Come!’ he ordered in heavily accented English. Cayla had no resistance left in her. She tried to stand up but she was very weak and she swayed on her feet and clutched at the bulkhead beside her for support. He grabbed her arm and led her through the door and onto the open deck. She tried to shield her eyes from the fierce sunlight with her free hand, but Kamal dashed it away.
‘Let them see your ugly white face!’ He laughed at her. She was pale as a corpse and her eyes were sunken into their deep dark sockets. Her hair was matted with sweat, and her clothing was soiled and stinking with vomit and faeces. The crew of the launch pressed closely about her, shouting religious and political slogans in her face, plucking at her hair and clothing, laughing and jeering, stamping and singing. Cayla’s senses reeled. She would have fallen but the press of men around her kept her on her feet.
‘Please!’ she whispered with the tears streaming down her pale cheeks. ‘Please don’t hurt me any more.’ They did not understand her. They dragged her across to the motor launch, and like a sack of dried fish passed her over the gap between the two vessels, and shoved her into its main cabin. Rogier was waiting for her there. He came to her at once.
‘I am sorry, Cayla. I cannot control them. You must not try to resist. I will do my best to protect you, but you must help me.’
‘Oh, Rogier!’ she sobbed. She had seen him at odd intervals since she had been taken aboard the dhow, but had not been able to speak to him. Now he embraced her. She clung to him. His kindly assurance and the tenderness in his expression overwhelmed her. In her terror and confusion he was the only thing she could believe in. Her mother’s memory and the other safe and comfortable world from which she had been wrenched had faded into unreality. He was all she had left. She was totally dependent on him.
‘Be brave, Cayla. It is nearly over. Very soon we will reach land and you will be safe. Once we are there I will be able to protect you and care for you.’
‘I love you, Rogier. I love you so very much. You are so strong and good to me.’ He led her to the wooden bunk at the rear of the cabin, and laid her upon it. He stroked her filthy hair and at last she fell into an exhausted sleep.
It was two hours before the land came up as a low dark line along the horizon ahead, and almost another hour before the launch ran into the bay. Gandanga Bay was formed by a headland that curved out from the mainland like a lion’s claw to form an enclosed area of deep water, protected from the prevailing trade-winds which relentlessly scoured this coast. The launch rounded the point and the bay opened up ahead of her.
Cayla was awakened by the commotion on the deck and she sat up to find Rogier gone. She peered out through the forward windows of the cabin. She was taken aback by the extent of the bay ahead and the mass of shipping that was crowded into it. There were ships of many shapes and sizes anchored in the protective arms of the bay. Closest to the beach were clusters of fishing dhows, while further out in the deeper water were assembled the vessels of more modern design. The nearest of these was a medium-sized oil tanker, her sides streaked with red-brown rust. The name on her stern was illegible but her port of registry was Monrovia. A dozen Arab guards looked down from the rail as the launch ran past. They waved and fired a fusillade of shots in the air. Cayla could not know that this bay was the main pirate lair and the tanker had been anchored there for the past three years since her capture. She was in ballast, her tanks filled with seawater rather than the precious oil. The owners had been unable or unwilling to pay the ransom money demanded by Rogier’s grandfather.
Anchored beyond the tanker were two container ships. They had been there less than six months. The steel containers stacked high on their decks were filled with a vast assortment of goods valued at tens of millions of dollars. The insurance companies would soon pay for their release. Lying between these container ships were numerous other craft which had been seized on the high seas. They varied from small sailing yachts to larger long-line fishing boats and a refrigerated ship with a cargo of frozen mutton from Australia rotting in her holds. The guards on all of these craft gave the launch a tumultuous welcome as it passed. Already they had heard the rumour of the priceless treasure she carried: an American princess whose family was the richest in that hated infidel country. The ransom that would be coerced from the grieving relatives for the return of the woman would be vast, and there would be a share for each one of them.
On the shore the town lined the water’s edge, a jumbled conglomeration of shacks and hovels with thatched or corrugated-iron roofs and walls built of sun-dried clay bricks. They were painted in a motley array of colours, with paints that had been looted from the stores of the captured ships. When the launch ran aground on the sandy foreshore the crew leaped overboard and with their robes tucked up around their waists dragged her higher up the beach. Rogier waded ashore with Cayla in his arms. The beach swarmed with armed men, but their ranks parted to let Rogier carry Cayla through to where a column of battered and dusty Land Rovers and Toyotas was parked above the high-water mark. Rogier seated her in the rear of the leading vehicle and four of his men squashed in beside her, two on each side. They smelled of wood smoke, rancid mutton fat and hashish. Their sweating bodies pressed against her lewdly, and their heavy weapons dug into her body. One of them grinned at her, his face a few inches from hers. His teeth were black and rotten and his mouth smelled like a pit latrine.
Rogier climbed into the driver’s seat and the gears clashed. They roared off along the unsurfaced road. The other Land Rovers followed in their dust. Cayla turned her face away from the man beside her and shielded her nose and mouth with her hand.
‘Where are you taking me, Rogier?’ she called above the racket of the engine. He turned his face to her and the Land Rover swerved wildly across the narrow track.
‘You are now in my world. You must never call me that false name again. My true name is Adam.’
‘Him Adam Tippoo Tip!’ said her guard, ‘Hot damn!’ They crashed through a deep pothole and all of them were thrown upwards with such force that their heads cracked against the steel roof. Cayla was the only one of them who showed any distress.
‘Where are you taking me, Rogier?’ she begged him.
‘That is not my name.’
‘Please forgive me. Where are you taking me, Adam?’
‘To my grandfather’s house.’
‘How far is it?’
‘Three, maybe four hours,’ he shouted back. ‘Now stop asking questions.’
They halted only once. They were on a hot treeless plain. The ground was strewn with red agate pebbles,
and the twin ruts of the track were the only feature in all that monotonous waste. Adam let her drink a few mouthfuls of warm water from an old wine bottle. The men carelessly relieved themselves in the open, but when Cayla went around the back of the Land Rover to do the same her guards followed her and, still pointing their rifles at her, formed an interested and appreciative audience. Cayla was past caring. They all mounted up again and went on. Eventually out of the shimmering heat mirage a range of blue hills rose up before them. As they drew closer Cayla saw that tucked away amongst the rugged foothills lay a startling green garden. There were groves of palms and orange trees. Beds of melons and maize were irrigated from furrows of running water. They drove past strings of camels which were hauling up leather buckets of water from the deep wells of the oasis and spilling it into the furrows.
‘How lovely it is here. What is the name of this place?’ Cayla asked, the first time she had spoken in an hour.
‘We call it the Oasis of the Miracle,’ Adam replied. ‘The brother of the Prophet, may he be praised through eternity, slept here on his journey through the wilderness, and in the morning when he awoke the sweet water bubbled from the earth on which he had lain.’
‘Is this the home of your grandfather?’
‘Up there.’ He pointed through the open window of the vehicle. She craned her head and looked up the steep hillside. She saw there were many stone buildings along the cliff face. Atop the largest of these was the distinctive cupola and minaret of a mosque, and adjoining this was a large shapeless building which sprawled down the slope, seemingly without design or purpose. Adam pointed it out to her. ‘That is my grandfather’s palace. Our family has lived there for three hundred years.’
‘It seems to me to be more a fortress than a palace.’
‘It is both,’ he replied and parked the Land Rover halfway up the hillside. A party of servants in white robes ran down to meet them. They offered baskets of cool damp cloths for the travellers to refresh themselves, and pitchers of orange juice sherbet. Adam poured a glass for Cayla which she gulped down gratefully, spluttering and choking in her haste. As soon as she had finished the delicious drink, Adam took her arm and led her up the slope that was too steep and rocky even for the Land Rover. Twice Cayla had to slump to the ground to rest. But at Adam’s urging she struggled back onto her feet and toiled on upwards. She felt no resentment of his dominance over her. She was numb with despair, and the only thing that mattered to her any longer was to please him and to avoid his anger. But every part of her body ached and the rocky path sent thrills of pain shooting up her legs into the base of her spine. She tried to think about her mother, but the image was unclear in her mind and soon faded completely. When she crumpled to the ground for a third time, Adam ordered two of the servants to carry her the last hundred metres, until they came to an ornately carved door in the side wall of the palace. Here they handed her over to four female slaves who were veiled and clad in full-length black Islamic habits.
The women led her into a warren of passages and dark rooms until they entered what was clearly the harem area. A crowd of women and young children materialized out of the gloom and pressed around her, laughing and exclaiming and tugging at her clothing or reaching out to touch her bedraggled blonde hair. Most of them had never seen hair of that colour before, and it fascinated them. They followed her into a tiny courtyard that was open to the sky.
The slave women stood her in the centre and, despite her protests, stripped off her filthy clothing. The women and children crowded closer to prod her white flesh. One of them tried to pluck a hair from the blonde bush at the base of her belly as a trophy, but Cayla lashed out at her with her fists and she squealed and recoiled, to the hilarious delight of the others.
From clay pitchers the slave women poured cool well water over Cayla’s head and shoulders. One of them handed her a bar of blue mottled carbolic soap and she scrubbed herself from the top of her head down to the soles of her feet. The harsh suds streamed down from her hair and stung her eyes, but she hardly noticed it in the joy of at last being clean again. When she had dried herself, the slaves helped her don a shapeless black robe like those they were wearing. The wide sleeves covered her arms down to her wrists and the skirts swept the floor. Chattering amongst themselves, they demonstrated to her how to wear the long black headscarf, so that it covered her hair and face, leaving only her eyes exposed. They placed a pair of goatskin sandals on her feet.
The alien attire gave her a strange sense of privacy, the first she had experienced since the taking of the Dolphin, and she held the scarf closer to her face and mouth, hiding from them and from the nameless terrors and dangers that she knew surrounded her. They would not let her rest and led her back through the maze of the building. As they went on the rooms they passed through became progressively more spacious and richly furnished with colourful rugs and piles of cushions on the floors and painted tiles on the walls. The tiles were decorated with texts from the Koran in swirling Arabic script.
Finally they came to the end of a passage that was closed off by a pair of sturdy doors. These were guarded by two men armed with AK-47 rifles. The slave women left her there, and once they were gone the guards swung the heavy doors open and signed for Cayla to go through into the large room beyond. She paused at the entrance and looked around quickly. She realized that this was part of the mosque. There was a row of robed men seated on cushions on the tiled floor. They were facing the pulpit at the far end of the hall. Adam was in the middle of the row. He turned to look back at her and beckoned her to come to him. She scurried to do his bidding, dropping to her knees beside him.
‘Adam!’ she started to speak but he silenced her.
‘Be quiet, woman. Go forward five paces and kneel facing the pulpit. Wait there in silence. When my grandfather comes through the door behind the pulpit you will place your forehead on the tiles and keep silent. You will speak only when you are spoken to. You will not look into his face at any time. He is a mighty lord and a descendant of the Prophet. You will show him total respect. Go now! Do as I have told you!’ She went forward and sank to her knees. She waited and she could hear the small sounds of the men behind her; one of them coughed and another shifted his position. Then she heard the door in front of her begin to open and she looked up, but Adam’s sharp command stopped her. ‘Down!’
She pressed her forehead to the floor and so saw nothing of what was happening around her. The door opened fully and a portly but stately figure strode through. He did not shuffle like an old man despite his snowy beard, the tips of which were dyed with henna in tribute to the Prophet whose beard had been red. His face was deeply wrinkled and his eyebrows were white and bushy. On his head was an ornately wrapped turban, and he wore a gold-coloured gown whose skirts swept the tiles. Over that was a waistcoat that came down to his knees. It was thickly encrusted with gold and silver filigree. His sandals had exaggeratedly pointed toes and were also embroidered with designs in delicate gold wire and polished semi-precious stones. As a symbol of his power he carried in his right hand a long hippo-hide whip with a handle of beaten gold. He looked over the row of prostrate figures and singled out Adam.
‘Come greet your grandfather, son of my son!’ he ordered. Adam sprang up and went to him with head bowed and eyes averted. He went down on his knees again before the old man and lifted his right foot, and placed the sole of his grandfather’s bejewelled sandal on his own head.
‘Stand before me, my grandson. Let me see your face. Let me embrace you.’ He lifted Adam to his feet, and stared into his eyes. ‘Through me and my son the blood of the Prophet runs in your veins. What I see in you is good and growing stronger with each day that passes.’ Adam was awed by the words, for his grandfather was Hadji Sheikh Mohammed Khan Tippoo Tip, one of the great warriors of Allah. The titles Hadji and Sheikh were honorifics acknowledging the facts that he had made the pilgrimage to Mecca and that he was the leader of a great clan. For five generations the eldest son of the family had b
orne the name Tippoo Tip. All of them had been legendary warriors, fearsome man-takers and relentless hunters of the elephant. Legend related that between them they had gathered up over a million souls from the interior of Africa and marched them down to their slave-trading stations on the coast. The number of elephant that they had killed was beyond counting, more numerous than the swarms of locusts that darkened the African sky in the time of the rains. Down the centuries fleets of Tippoo Tip dhows had plied the oceans carrying the ivory and slaves from Africa to Arabia and India, and beyond to China.
Allah curse the devil-worshipping infidels, the English and the Americans, who have outlawed the taking of men and the killing of the elephant and driven my great family into decline and obscurity, Adam thought. But the wheel has turned. Just as the sun goes through the night to emerge again at dawn in its full power and glory, my family will regain its power. Men will learn to fear us once more as we gather up the ships and citizens of the infidel with impunity. At this very moment scores of captured ships lay in Gandanga Bay, and hundreds of prisoners filled the slave compounds awaiting ransom. Now he had brought his venerated grandfather a diamond beyond price, the richest prize the family had ever taken. With this deed Adam had become a fearsome man-taker like his ancestors. Adam and his grandfather embraced, and then Sheikh Khan turned to look down at the woman who still knelt in obeisance before him.
‘Tell this female to rise,’ he commanded and Adam spoke quietly to Cayla.
‘Stand up! My grandfather wants to look at you.’ Cayla rose to her feet and stood with her head hanging submissively.
‘Tell her to remove the veil. I wish to see her face,’ Sheikh Khan ordered. Adam passed on the command and Cayla drew the head shawl off her hair and face. She stood quietly until the old man seized her chin and lifted her head to stare into her face. At a loss for how to behave, Cayla looked directly into his eyes and smiled. It was an uncertain but winning smile that must have charmed any other male. Sheikh Khan stepped back and slashed her across the face with the hippo-hide whip. Cayla shrieked with the agony of the stroke.