THIRTY-THREE
The Landing by Night
At last I set eyes on the Fat-el-Rahman, peacefully riding at anchor. Nothing untoward had occurred during my absence. It had been agreed in Cairo that I should take my cargo to a point on the coast which would be indicated to me by one of Omar’s men. He would be there waiting for me when I arrived, and would embark with me. I wondered how I could go out to sea without attracting attention. The simplest thing to do was to pretend to be going for a sail in the roads. The curiosity aroused by my boutre had already died away, and I hoped that my short absence would pass unnoticed. Just to be on the safe side I went to see Spiro and told him I meant to ask for permission to fish for mother-of-pearl in the Gulf. He telephoned to his ‘intimate friend’, the commander of the coastguards, to ask what I should do.
‘Go and see him; he is expecting you at Port Tewfik. He is a charming man,’ said little Spiro.
So here I was at the door of the coastguards’ barracks, between two cannon dating from the time of the Khedive Mohamed Ali. I gave my card to an orderly. At once a young Egyptian officer came out of the yellow building at the end of the courtyard, and took me to the commander, who was a fat and florid creature, fairish, badly shaved, but very neat. His fez made him look like a Turk, but he was a Maltese, and spoke Italian fairly well.
‘I was much interested in your idea,’ he said. ‘I should be delighted to have your vessel going backwards and forwards along the coast, for you could tell us many things that escape us in spite of all our vigilance.’
I wondered if he was going to ask me to keep my eyes open for hashish smugglers.
‘Yes’, I replied, ‘I have heard that a certain amount of smuggling goes on. But tell me all about it, so that I can be useful to you in the matter.’
‘What interests me is the gun-running.’
‘What, that goes on here? And who buys the arms?’
‘Oh, you’ve no idea how eager the Bedouins always are to get arms. There are always agitators stirring up rebellions in Upper Egypt against the English.’
‘And is there hashish smuggling too?’
At the word ‘hashish’, thé commander started as if I had said something obscene. He looked involuntarily at the door to see if it were shut. Then he forced a smile.
‘Certainly there is, but we are not customs officers. Besides it doesn’t amount to a row of beans here. At Alexandria and Port Said it’s a different story. But what is really grave here is the traffic in arms.’
He hastened to change the conversation, and we spoke of fishing and the temperature, as one always must if one has come up from Djibouti. I noticed that this gallant soldier had rather vague notions of geography. He placed Djibouti in Madagascar, opposite the mouth of the Congol My question about hashish had shaken him a bit. No doubt this was too delicate a matter to be discussed with a stranger.
Of course I displayed the pearls I was supposed to have found in the Gulf, and presented him with one of them. It was agreed that I should make a written demand for permission to fish for mother-of-pearl. He would give it his warm support, and he did not think it would be refused. I was pretty sure, however, that the English, who would have to be consulted, would find some pretext for not granting my request.
The day before that fixed for my expedition, Djebeli brought a basket of vegetables as an excuse for coming to see me. Omar’s Bedouin had arrived from Cairo; he was at Stavro’s and they expected me that evening.
At nine o’clock I was knocking at the little door. Stavro looked worried. He had been warned that the coastguards had been doubled, that is to say, that there was a night patrol as well as a day one.
‘Has something leaked out? Are their suspicions aroused?’ I asked.
‘I don’t think it is for your benefit. For some time the authorities have been dreading a rising in Upper Egypt, and they are on the look-out for gun-runners. Djebeli is on the watch, and will find out if there will be a patrol tomorrow night. You must go to the point of Ras-el-Adabieh, under the mountains of Ataqa, where he will be waiting for you, and will tell you what to do next. The Bedouin sent by Omar will be with him. He knows where you must put in to deliver the goods. Look, here he is, so that you will be able to recognize him.’
He advanced towards a form huddled in a comer of the room, and said:
‘Come on, Ahmed, you’ve slept long enough. Come here. It’s terrible,’ he added, ‘the way these people sleep when they have nothing to do. They curl up and drowse like hibernating dormice.’
A very dark-skinned Arab with a sunburnt face came out of the corner where he had been lying, wrapped in his burnous. He was dressed in the thick woollen stuffs worn by the mountaineers, because of the chilliness of the nights. He was very dirty, and smelt strongly of the stable, as do all those who live constantly among camels. He kept scratching himself, with so eloquent a gesture that when he touched my hand in greeting I began to scratch myself too, for I felt that his invisible vermin had invaded my garments.
I listened attentively to all the instructions about how the goods must be packed before they were landed, then I said good night to the black-robed women, who would no doubt pray for my success before the icon. As I went out, I noticed that a propitiatory candle of yellow wax was already burning. I stopped on the threshold, for it had just struck me that if there was any muddle and my guide didn’t manage to turn up the next day at the appointed hour at the point of Ras-el-Adabieh, all our plans would come to nothing. It would be wiser for him to accompany me at once on board the Fat-el-Rahman. Stavro quite agreed. There was no danger, for it was late and very dark. Besides, everybody was accustomed now to seeing my sailors coming and going, so I could embark him without attracting any attention. We took the precaution to remove his vast burnous, which might have attracted the notice of the sentinels on the quay, and he walked in front of me, lightly clad like the rest of my men. The sentinels took not the slightest notice of him. It was a triumph to have got him on board so unobtrusively, for there were no Bedouins at Suez, and it would have been remarked if one of them had been seen going on board my boutre.
Spiro advised me to go and see the assistant harbour-master before I left. He was an Arab, and another ‘intimate friend’. In addition to his administrative functions, he did coasting for the Messageries with a large boutre. The agent of the Messageries Maritimes at Suez only had to do with arranging passages on the liners. He never had to arrange for important cargoes. So active and ambitious agents would not have liked this post. No coaling, no taking on of firemen, no provisioning; it was really more or less an honorary post, something like a consulship, an easy but not very remunerative situation. Naturally, only a man who was incapable of the little traffickings in which his colleagues of the other posts indulged would want such a post. Only a disinterested and honourable man who wanted to wind up peacefully an unblemished career would be found there, and such indeed was Monsieur Le Coufflet, who is probably there to this day.
The consul had his Spiro and Monsieur Le Coufflet had his Demartino. He did everything, and seemed to run the whole agency. He was treated as the son of the house, one might say, for everybody in this agency had an air of belonging to the same united family. The office with its old-fashioned desks never saw a stranger. Who could have guessed that Messageries had an agent in Old Suez? The native staff had been born on the premises and had succeeded their fathers, and their children would take their places when they died. Even the old tree in the courtyard seemed to be venerated as an ancestor, and though the branches had pushed their way right against the windows, nobody would have dreamed of pruning them.
The old tugboat, the Helen, had an aristocratic air, with her high, old-fashioned chimney. She wended her way sedately among the swift launches which crossed the roads in all directions, seeming to protest against the insolent tumult and feverishness of this twentieth century by her dignified leisureliness.
Monsieur Le Coufflet received me cordially. When I had explained what
I wanted, he summoned the assistant harbour-master, whose boutre did the coasting of the rare cargoes confided to the Messageries here by eccentric traders. Introduced by Monsieur Le Coufflet and recommended by Spiro, I was able to come to an understanding with this Arab in no time. He was so fat and flabby that one felt vaguely uneasy if obliged to remain in his immediate vicinity. His belt had a helpless air as if it really couldn’t guarantee to control these vast billows of fat much longer. I couldn’t help thinking of the hoops of my water-barrels, which had burst during the voyage. Demartino spoke the local Arabic much better than I, so he discussed the matter with the harbour-master and it was agreed that for two thalers I could go out for a short time from the harbour without anyone even noticing. The harbour-master was an Englishman, but all his faculties were absorbed by whisky-drinking, which left him just enough leisure to sign papers presented to him without bothering about their contents. His assistant attended to all the ordinary routine affairs. This had been an established custom for long, and the English are very conservative, so there was no reason to fear any sudden change.
After the two days I had just spent in Cairo, I felt delightfully soothed by the atmosphere of this agency of the Messageries Maritimes. There was an old-fashioned charm in the antique furniture, and something of the past seemed to linger within these walls, something of the days when the Chinese mail-packet spread billowing sails to the monsoon in the Indian Ocean. Then, too, I felt at home with Monsieur Le Coufflet; there was no longer any need to wear a mask. I was sorry to return to Port Tewfik, that modern town of Thomas Cook and his fellows. My boutre, which would soon take me away from all that, seemed a refuge.
I set sail discreetly in the afternoon. Only the Harbour and Lighthouse Service could have questioned my departure, and I knew that the fat Arab would make that all right. The pretext I had given was a fishing expedition to pass the time, for I was supposed to be waiting for the Admiralty’s reply to my application for a concession. I therefore made first of all for the reefs near the Mountains of Ataqa. As soon as twilight fell I was far enough off to be invisible from the coast. My Bedouin was slumbering in the foot of the hold, but as soon as we got outside, though there was very little swell, he became violently sick. This did not seem to suit his vermin, which spread all over the boat. My men did not seem to realize at first why they wanted to scratch, but when they did they shook all their possessions violently in the wind.
As soon as the sun had disappeared behind the mountains we crowded on sail and made for the south. I stopped the boutre opposite the point of Ras-el-Adabieh and sent the pirogue ashore to parley with Djebeli. He was crouching on the beach, as motionless as a rock.
‘Go away,’ he said; ‘a patrol coming from Suez is about due, and they must not see your ship.’
‘How many men?’
‘Two, no doubt, but that is enough. Even if they happened on us by accident they wouldn’t prevent us from doing what we have to do, for they know that the Bedouins are armed and they have no desire to be killed. They would take to their heels, but the frontier guards would be alarmed, and the police in Cairo would know in less than an hour, so that for at least a month we shouldn’t be able to budge. Come, be quick, I’m coming on board with you.’
Once more we were at sea. Djebeli had relapsed into his usual taciturnity, and sat smoking Abdi’s pipe. He indicated exactly what direction I must take in order to get to the meeting-place. About midnight, a chain of hills began to stand out against the sombre background of the high plateaux. They seemed to be fairly near the coast. It was there that the caravan was waiting for us. I anchored in sixty feet of water. According to the chart that meant I was about a mile from shore. That was far enough to ensure invisibility from land. Ali Omar, Djebeli, the Bedouin and I went on ahead of the others. Everything before us looked dark. It is always easier to see things on the water, especially if the watcher is low down. Djebeli stopped the pirogue as soon as the paddle touched bottom.
‘Stay there,’ he said; 1 shall go on alone. If you hear voices, go away, but if, on the contrary, you see the glow of a cigarette, come towards it.’
‘Have you matches?’
‘No, but I have a flint in my pocket.’
The ‘flint’ was a piece of camel-dropping, which he had lit before leaving home. As he had been behind me I had not smelt this natural wick. The water reached his waist; I saw him go slowly into the darkness, his clothes in a bundle on his shoulder. Only a faint line of phosphorescence showed where he had passed, but now I smelt the fire he carried with him in his turban. Then he seemed to begin to make as much noise as possible as he walked in the water. He spat, cleared his throat, churned up the water like a man who was performing his ablutions without any attempt at concealment. I understand that he did this on approaching land, so as to attract the attention of a possible sentinel, who would call out when he heard the noise. This was the best way of finding out if danger lurked in these mysterious shadows.
Then silence fell. He had probably left the water. We remained motionless and silent while the minutes dragged by. From time to time we could hear the cry of a sea-bird echoing among the rocks or the swish of the water at the passage of the little coast sharks, but on shore there was profound silence. This continued so long that I was afraid I had missed the glow of the lighted cigarette, but at last we perceived on our right the intermittent blinking of the little red eye.
So the way was clear. We advanced fearlessly, and found Djebeli waiting at the edge of the water. He bade us hasten and walk exactly in his footprints over the sand. Thus it would seem that only one man had passed this way. Anyhow the strip of sand was very narrow; almost immediately we found ourselves walking on hard soil. We crossed under the telegraph wires which skirted the coast from the entrance of the Gulf, the poles studding the path along which came the patrols.
They have passed,’ said Djebeli. ‘I saw the traces, and I was lucky enough to find these camel-droppings. They are still warm, which proves that they passed about half an hour ago. The guide must go and announce our arrival without losing a moment, so that we can get everything done before the patrol comes back.’
The Bedouin, thankful to be back on dry land, had already vanished in the direction of the hills. Djebeli sat down in the hollow of a rock from where he could see without being seen. From here he could signal to us with his everlasting cigarette if the way was clear. I noticed how he did it. He enclosed the cigarette with his hand so that the light could only be seen from one direction, and the incandescent glow was visible at night from a considerable distance.
We went back to the boutre to fetch our merchandise. Half an hour later the first load of bundles arrived, watched over by the little red point of fire. We tried as far as possible to walk in the same prints or at least to reduce as much as possible the width of the trampled belt of sand. There were fourteen bundles attached in twos in such a way that if necessary they could be thrown over a saddle without a second being lost. They were shaped so that they could be placed in two openings hollowed out in the stuffing of the saddle. The whole crew had swum ashore, for the pirogue was heavily laden with the goods. Silently each man seized his double bundle, weighing nearly a hundredweight, and ran off in Indian file. The last one had just crossed the path with the telegraph poles; the worst danger was now past. We were swallowed up by the darkness, the bushes and the rocks. Firan had rowed the pirogue about three cables.’ lengths out and was waiting for us. If anyone did pass along the path he would see nothing.
As soon as we had got a safe distance from this dangerous path we laid down our bundles and waited for the return of the Bedouin, who had gone to tell the camel-drivers. Time passed and he did not come back. I began to be anxious.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Djebeli; ‘the camels are often at a considerable distance and our messenger may not be back for some time yet. We have no time to lose; it would be better to fetch the rest of the bundles, for the great thing is to get them across the path. Once they ar
e here the risk is very slight, and we can wait calmly for the camel-drivers.’
So we set off to fetch the second and last part of the cargo. Only one man went with the cabin-boy on board; the rest of us waited on the beach. Djebeli was with us. I calculated that the pirogue would be back in about a quarter of an hour. That would be the critical moment, for what a disaster if it reached the shore just as the patrol came back. I waited, strung up to a high pitch of nervous tension. Every minute I thought I could see the lofty silhouette of a man on a racing-camel. The very telegraph poles became threatening. I was eaten up with impatience for the return of the pirogue which seemed to be so long in coming. Djebeli was crouching near me. He had just lit a fresh cigarette and was drawing long whiffs between his cupped hands.
We were right at the edge of the water, sheltered from indiscreet eyes by a small dune covered with bushes. The path lay thirty feet behind us, guarded by two men I had posted one on each side of us. In this way each sentinel had only one direction to guard. They were to throw a pebble towards our bushes if they saw the slightest shadow. This sound would be enough to warn us while it could not be heard by anyone approaching. So we had only to keep watch on the sea before us, wait for the pirogue to arrive, and listen.
Ali noticed a black speck on the water. It grew bigger; it was the laden pirogue. Through my glasses I could make out the heap of bundles. At last we could get on. Just as we were about to spring up to go and meet it, the sharp sound of a rolling stone froze us into immobility. A second pebble followed: probably the sentinel had been afraid we should not hear the first. Djebeli instantly put out his cigarette, and we waited, holding our breath. The accursed pirogue seemed to fill the whole horizon to the exclusion of everything else. The signal which was to guide her had vanished, but would the men understand what had happened? She came on, slowly and noiselessly, but undoubtedly approaching. Then a dull, rhythmic sound beat upon the air, and we heard the stones rolling under the swift gallop of two racing-camels. The soldiers reined in their mounts to a foot-pace. I could plainly make out the two men through my night glasses, and even distinguish the barrels of the rifles slung across their saddles.
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