Hashish

by Henry De Monfreid

  I had no longer any doubt that those so-called ship-wrecked mariners were deserters. Very likely they were the men who had been arrested in Eritrea, whom the unfortunate Voiron had been setting out to fetch from Raheita the day he was murdered. I explained this to Youssouf, and he became very thoughtful, and asked me if I would take him to some point on the Dankali coast. What I had just told him had made him very uneasy about his brother’s fate, and he wanted to set out immediately to find out what had become of him. The only possible explanation of his long absence was that he had met with a violent death. Somalis have generally very little scruple about flinging an inconvenient Dankali overboard. The man who had saved their lives might talk when they arrived at the French post of Angar, and suspicions might be aroused. The deserters knew that a reward had been offered for their capture, and they had probably decided to get rid of their benefactor so that he would not yield to the temptation of betraying them. They had therefore paid their debt of gratitude by sending him immediately to the paradise of the faithful.

  I set sail with Youssouf and his few belongings on board, and some hours later I anchored at the little beach of the bay north of Syan. The first thing we saw on the sand was the wreck of a pirogue. Youssouf immediately recognized it as his brother’s. It had undoubtedly been deliberately destroyed, for beside it we found the great stone with which its bottom had been stove in. It had been there for several days, for there were no traces in the sand, and the khamsin had already covered it with a powdery dust. Youssouf gazed silently at this evidence of the disaster which had overtaken him. He had now no illusions about his brother’s fate. Poor Mhamed’s corpse, or rather his bleached bones, for that is all that is left of a man in this country very soon after his death, were lying in some deserted corner, mute witness of the imprudence of trying to help one’s fellow-creatures. Youssouf went off without a word towards his destiny. I watched his tall form as it grew smaller, then was swallowed up in the African bush, bristling with terrible thorns, hostile and savage as a wild beast at bay.

  FIFTEEN

  The Khamsin

  By a lucky chance, for which we could hardly have hoped at this season, a fair south-west wind began to blow, before which we ran easily through the strait and right up to the north of the Bay of Beilul. But at this summer season, which is the most dangerous of all in the Red Sea, you can never be sure of the weather. It can change completely in less than an hour.

  I saw great storm clouds massing on the mountains of Djebel Asmara, to the north, on the African side, and on our right to the eastward another storm was brewing behind the ragged peaks of Yemen. Gigantic flashes of lightning tore through the black cloud banks, but so far away that we heard not the faintest clap of thunder. The south-east wind, which had brought us so quickly and easily to where we were, faltered and dropped. I reckoned we had now arrived in the middle of the barometric depression caused by these storms. The ship settled down motionless on a leaden sea. An un-echoing silence enveloped us under the immense vault of black clouds, and flocks of sea-birds passed swiftly, almost skimming the water, all going the same way, towards the Hanish Islands, in terrified flight before a threatening danger.

  The sun was now hidden behind the heaped-up banks of cloud in the north-west. The rounded black masses were edged by loops and swirls of flame. The sky grew red as the reflection from a furnace, and dark bands rayed out from the west like dizzy arches projected towards the zenith to span the world. What was going to happen? Bitterly now I regretted the time I had wasted taking Voiron’s body to Djibouti, as but for that I should now be far to the north. What specially worried me was that I had never navigated a ship through these regions in summer. I knew plenty of shelters – I had visited them often enough – but they were only of use in winter when the south-east wind prevails. But it was now July, and I was like a rat in a trap, surrounded as I was by storms. Who could tell from which point the wind would begin to blow? All I knew was that it would blow a hurricane. As night drew on, both sides of the horizon grew clearer, for now uninterruptedly a lurid light played across the entire mass of the clouds, while at intervals jagged flashes of lightning slashed them in all directions. At last the wind rose, hot and baleful.

  ‘Ouari, ouari,’ cried my men. (The khamsin, the khamsin.)

  We set our sails to receive it. Immediately it became violent, as if it had been roused to fury by encountering our miserable little bark. How well I understand those ancient legends which personify the winds. Anyone who lives with this capricious element as a sailor does, and tries to tame and domesticate it, realizes how exactly these fictions describe his experiences. Every wind has for him a distinct character, a physiognomy; he knows it in the same way as he knows his comrades, his friends or his enemies. This khamsin, or ouari, as the natives call it, is a taciturn wind. He runs sullenly under a dust-obscured sky, and his rage breaks forth suddenly against the unlucky ship which lies cowering in his path, under bare poles in her efforts to escape his notice.

  Soon we were in a perfect cloud of sand, or of dust rather, this dust which is so fine that it gets into everything. The sea, surprised in its dead calm, took a minute to realize what was happening. The foam ran over its surface like snowflakes driven by the tempest, and already the spray pattered on the deck. But soon it woke up and, shuddering, shook free its mighty waves, which smashed against our hull, while the swell increased every second. Darkness fell, and we were blindly driven westwards. The whole question was now how long this would last. Tiny as was our storm-sail, under which we were fleeing before the tempest, we were running at least seven or eight knots, and this speed was necessary if we did not want to be swallowed up by the pursuing waves. At this rate we should reach the coast in less than five hours, and with our prow hard on the reef, we should have no alternative but to tack and try to outwit our enemy. This being so, it might be just as well not to let this convenient but dangerous flight go on too long.

  The wind seemed to be making tentative efforts to turn to the north, which led me to suppose that the return of the prevailing north-west wind was imminent. This changing of direction meant the shocking together of two swells; never a very pleasant thing for a small boat. Before this tiresome complication should begin, I wanted to take advantage of the winds, which were still westerly, to get as far north as possible, and try to reach the shelter of the Hanish chain. With this fifteen-mile-long mountain barrier between me and the wind, I could tack in calm water until daylight. By guesswork, since I had now no means of taking our bearings, I steered in the direction I thought the right one. Overhead a few stars were now shining, but the dust-storm very low on the water prevented us from seeing more than half a mile around us. The sea was very rough, with short, choppy waves. In less than a quarter of an hour we were white with salt from the seas which broke continually over us, and which the burning wind evaporated in a twinkling.

  The ouari or khamsin has the reputation of breaking masts and yards. It is this Well-known truth which makes the natives say that it is a heavy wind. If the mast or yard resists, then the ship turns over, and such shipwrecks take place in large numbers every year. The fact is quite accurate, but there is a more scientific explanation than the appetite for destruction of this desert wind. It is simply that the dry and burning heat of the wind makes the wood less pliable and more brittle. So it was with anxiety that I watched the yard bending every time the vessel pitched, and I expected every second to hear a sinister crack from the rigging. This noise of snapping wood is so dreaded by navigators in these parts that when the cabin-boy is preparing Wood to heat his oven, every time he breaks a branch, he cries out ‘Hatah’ (firewood), as otherwise this sound would cause a start of alarm.

  At last the dust-storm cleared, and to starboard I could see the black cones of the Hanish Islands before us. The wind drew forward more and more, but I could still keep the helm in the right direction. The north-west wind was now master of the situation, and had soon swept away the dust, but it also brought along th
e storm clouds which had accumulated on the Asmara Mountains, and soon the sky was heavily overcast, and it was as dark as if we were in a cellar. The Hanish Islands were now to port. In spite of their nearness, we could only just make out their summits through the dimness. We were less than a mile from them, for we were sailing in their shelter. The sea here was practically calm, although the wind was just as violent. We passed through zones of such extraordinary phosphorescent water that we seemed to be sailing through liquid phosphorus. In the gloom the sails were lit up by livid reflections, and from time to time our faces gleamed, death-like and sinister as the faces of ghosts. This phosphorescence was strong enough to dazzle us, and prevent us from seeing anything of the big island to port, or the cluster of rocky islets to starboard and to windward. We were in a sort of channel about a mile wide. In the darkness our only guide to the shore on either side was the phosphorescence as the waves broke on it.

  Besides the very real danger of such a situation and the terrible anxiety it carried with it, there was an element of moral disarray, just to complete our discomfiture. The weird and infernal nature of the scene, joined to physical fatigue and lack of sleep, would have prevented the strongest brain from functioning normally, and we were all in a sort of crazy state in which we could no longer distinguish clearly between the real and the unreal. I don’t know what my thoughts were during these moments; I was in a sort of half-delirious, nightmarish state, a sort of fantastic madness; perhaps I was simply afraid.

  Suddenly the wind dropped dead and the sail abruptly sagged. Instinctively I realized we must be in those dangerous eddies produced by the gusts of wind in the mountains which overhung us. We had gone too near the coast. In the brief silence of this unexpected lull, which had fallen on us like a threat, we could hear all round us the sea growling on invisible reefs. Then a sort of whistling ran over the water, increasing in volume as it approached at a dizzy speed, and a gust of wind smacked the ship on the stem. It was so sudden that the yard snapped clean through the middle, and it was lucky that it did, for otherwise the ship would have turned over. The immediate danger of our situation banished all the bogies and evil spirits which were dancing through our imaginations. The sail had to be saved. And only with God’s help would we come safely through, with this half-torn canvas wrenching and sweeping everything away into the darkness with its loose cordages.

  The sudden gust of wind which had torn away the sail lasted only a minute; it passed like an avalanche, and was succeeded by another dead calm. During this brief lull we managed to bring to the deck the forward part of the lateen yard which still held to the halyard. And now we were under bare poles, with nothing to fear from a fresh gust of wind, but drifting towards this accursed cluster of islets which I knew to lie half a mile to windward.

  I could see quite plainly the phosphorescent bar where the sea broke on the rocks. It was a long group, very low on the water, and the current was bearing us towards the middle of it. Should we have time to rig up a jury sail so that we could steer round the islets? I knew they were linked together by jagged rocks just under the water, and that there was no hope of passing between any two of them. I kept the ship across the wind to stave off the end as long as possible, and left to my men the preparation of a sail. They were expert at these emergency riggings which so often have to be made on boutres, and at such a moment an order not clearly understood might have delayed them for several seconds, and every second was precious. The minutes seemed like hours, but at last I saw the white triangle of a jib going up. It was as if a radiant sun had risen in this infernal night. At once I felt the ship steady herself against the wind, and begin at long last to make headway.

  But now the fiery serpent which was coiling round the rocks was a bare three cables’ length off. We almost touched it, heading in a parallel direction. It was all I could do with this sail and the wind on the beam, and slowly we drifted nearer. Would this island never end? It seemed a hundred miles long. At last I heaved a sigh of relief; we had reached the point. Just as I was about to bear away in order to round it, I saw the water foaming round a jagged spike which prolonged it half a cable’s length. This time it was the end of everything; we could not pass. My mouth was parched and burning, and my cheeks hurt with the force with which I kept my teeth clenched, as if the contraction of all my muscles could stop this awful drifting which was leading us into the jaws of death. Suddenly the wind drew forward, the vessel cast off, and we made straight for the rocks. All the crew felt that their last moment had come, and from the deck where they were gathered I heard the clamour of resignation before the inevitable: ‘La illa illalah, la illa illalah.’ How often I had heard it when a dead man was being borne to his grave. But this abrupt drawing forward of the wind had been caused by an eddy, and it immediately attacked us from the other side, guiding our prow into the centre of the strait. Just in the nick of time. God did not want our lives, it would seem. Our hour was not yet.

  SIXTEEN

  Big Guns in Action

  Then followed a week of painful navigation against head winds, which, however, varied sufficiently in direction to allow of advantageous tacking. As far as possible I hugged the coast, for out at sea there was a very heavy swell, with a strong and unchanging north-west wind. The channel south of Massawa between the mainland and the Dahlak archipelago was much calmer, and there I had the advantage of the changes in wind thanks to the nearness of the continent, and also of the gusts of the khamsin, which blew nearly every evening, coming from deserts still burning from the heat of the sun. In the end I got accustomed to this capricious wind, and endured it for the one virtue it possessed in my eyes, that of blowing from the west. There is often something useful to be learnt from the most disagreeable things as from the worst of men. I passed Massawa without calling in, though I would fain have passed a few hours with my friend Jacques Schouchana, who would be there at this time of year. However, the nature of my cargo might have exposed me to unwelcome curiosity.

  After Massawa, right along the northern channel I skirted a low, monotonous coast which rose gradually towards the interior of the country, covered with scrubby thorny mimosas, tufts of dry grass, and everywhere with stones. I was so short of firewood that I had been reduced to a diet of dates and biscuits, so I was on the look-out for a point where I could put in to gather even a few twigs, and I went northwards in short tacks, so as never to be far from the coast. The coastal reef stretched unbroken, without the smallest opening where one might anchor, even for an hour. The coral slabs which border the shores of these warm seas stretch out for more than a quarter of a mile, and make it quite impossible for the smallest ship to put in, for at their edge the water is too deep to give hold for an anchor.

  I saw a small boutre coming from the north running before the wind. She followed the line of foam which marked the edge of the reef so closely as almost to touch it. Then suddenly she tacked, went in among the breakers, made straight for land, and anchored right inshore. She had passed through an opening in the reefs which I should never have seen if this miraculous chance had not guided me. It seemed the simplest thing in the world to use this boutre as pilot and follow her into the anchorage. But when I reached the opening, it looked so narrow and I knew so little about it that I suddenly changed my mind, and with a twist of the helm I stood out to sea again. This decision had been so swift and unhesitating that afterwards I concluded it had been imposed upon me by my subconscious will. I decided to leave my ship lying-to, in charge of Mhamed Moussa, and go ashore in the pirogue with Abdi and Kadigeta in case it was necessary to speak Dankali. As soon as we got out of the pirogue I made for the bushes, thinking that there I should surely find some firewood.

  A native ran up to me and very insolently asked me where I came from, what I wanted, and so on.

  ‘Who are you yourself, who speak like a sultan?’ I retorted.

  ‘I am an Italian soldier. Give me your papers and follow me to the post.’

  ‘How do I know you are an askari? Y
ou have no uniform. Go back to your post yourself, and think yourself lucky that I don’t give you a lesson in manners.’

  So saying, I made as if to go towards the clump of bushes. At this the native threw himself upon me, and tried to snatch the revolver I had in my belt. Naturally, a struggle ensued. He called to his aid the sailors of the boutre which had put in a few minutes before us, and five of them came running up. I had only Abdi to help me, for Kadigeta had run off towards the sea. My attacker held his ground, clinging like grim death to my revolver. He knew that if only he could keep me from using it, the five Dankalis would soon master us. But my crew had been watching from the ship, which was not far from the coast, and as soon as Mhamed Moussa realized that there was a fight, he began to fire off shots to frighten my aggressors. The arms on board were Gras rifles with cartridges filled with black powder, and the detonations made a terrific row. Soon the boutre was smoking like a warship in some old print of an engagement at sea. Terrified, the five Dankalis threw themselves flat on the ground, and the self-styled askari let go and nipped off, mother naked, into the bushes, leaving his white chama in Abdi’s hands.

  We did not wait for a more glorious victory, but ran towards the pirogue which Kadigeta held ready to push off, and as fast as we could paddle we rejoined the boutre. I was just throwing a leg over the gunwale when a volley of shots was fired from the shore. I saw half a score of red tarbooshes appear from behind the dunes. They were the native soldiers of the Italian post, who had come to their comrade’s rescue, thinking he had been attacked. They treated us to some pretty sniping, and bullets fell thickly round us. It was fortunate that we were already under sail, for it would not have been easy to manoeuvre under the circumstances.