by Jack Ludlow
‘I am not privy to where he wants to go or is headed, I have my own concerns.’
‘You know, Jardine, the folks round here are real friendly, and when I saw you come in on a dhow this morning-’
‘You were in Berbera, not here?’
‘Sure I was, and when you disappeared I went and had a little word.’
‘They don’t know anything.’
‘They know more than you think and they took you to a place called Zeila where you met some guy and-’
‘Don’t tell me,’ he interrupted, ‘you paid them to talk?’
‘Naw, I undid a couple of buttons on my shirt. They were so keen to see what a white woman had inside they would have denied Mohammed.’
‘God knows why,’ Jardine replied with an infuriated growl, ‘you’d hardly fill an egg cup.’
His attempt to divert her with an insult failed utterly, she just grinned and wiggled her tight bottom. ‘Some guys like their ladies a little on the slender side. Now, I will tell you what I think: Tyler wants to get into a part of Abyssinia that the locals are keeping him out of and I figure he has engaged you to get him there, which is why you went to Zeila, which I am told is a shithole.’
‘Fishing trip.’
‘My ass.’
‘I’ve met stevedores who swear less than you.’
‘And I have met liars in academia who would leave you for dead. I need to get to Gondar or Aksum and drag my dear mother out of there. I have sent her cables by the dozen saying it is dangerous, but either they don’t get through or she is not listening.’
‘Neither are you. It is bloody dangerous.’
‘You don’t remember, I am a Spartan woman.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘It means I can read and write, it means I can shoot a rifle or a pistol, and if you can find a bow and arrow I will knock an apple off your goddamned head. It means I can ride a horse bareback and go without food, climb mountains and herd cattle.’
‘I read somewhere those Spartan women were happy to be seen prancing around in the nude.’
‘There I draw the line.’
‘You might have just blown your best chance of persuading me.’
‘And I thought you were a decent guy.’
‘When it comes to lust, honey, there’s no such thing.’ The drawling interruption identified the speaker. ‘They also shared their charms with more than one man to beget children. You now have a chance to get me on your side, Corrie.’
‘How much did you hear, Tyler?’
‘Enough.’
‘So, Jardine, what’s it to be?’ Corrie Littleton asked.
‘When did I cease to be a “Mr” and become someone you address like a servant?’
‘I’ll call you “sir” if it will help,’ the girl said.
‘Wrong Jardine — that’s my cousin.’
‘You got a first name?’
‘Yes, my friends call me Cal, you can call me Mister Jardine.’
‘I have to tell you I am desperate. The only way I will get my mother out of there is if I drag her by the hair. I know nothing about armies …’
‘Except classical ones,’ Alverson suggested, with a slight smirk.
The remark got Tyler Alverson a glare, one that softened when she looked back at Jardine.
‘I know where she is, right in the path of Mussolini’s soldiers and on the road to Addis.’
Jardine had read up on places like Gondar and Aksum, both at one time home to Ethiopian royalty going back to antiquity. In Gondar each succeeding king or queen seemed to feel the need to build a place or fortress of their own, so there were multiple buildings of real historical interest, not to mention a source of national pride, and that might be a place the present ruler would be determined to fight for. It was almost as if Corrie Littleton read his mind.
‘Haile Selassie will try to defend Aksum and Gondar for sure, and I have heard enough about those Blackshirt bastards to know they will not respect the old royal palaces. They’ll blow them to hell if they need to and kill anyone who gets in their way. If you had ever met my mother you would know she will try to stop them with her bare hands.’
‘Now I know where you get it from.’
‘I’m desperate, Mr Jardine, really desperate.’
‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me,’ he sighed, ‘and you would not credit the number of people who tell me I’ve got a stone instead of a heart.’
She ran at him then and jumped into his arms, bestowing a smacking kiss on his cheek. Jardine was shocked; Tyler Alverson was laughing.
There is nothing worse than waiting, except waiting with other people who are, like you, keeping a secret. Everything you say, every gesture you make, seems to allude to that which you are trying to hide. Conversations are started and broken off, and all the while there was the worry for Jardine, who had settled in his own mind on the additions to his party, that Lieutenant Grace would return in his boat or Peydon would reappear from the desert, either of which would put the mockers on everything.
Grace was sailing the Red Sea, unaware of the nature of one ship he was passing, flying a red duster. His own white ensign pennant seemed to be of excessive interest to a couple of folk on the deck, one of whom waved, an act that was responded to by a rating, earning the sailor a reprimand and a reminder that he was not on holiday. He had spoken to several of the traders who plied this sea route and used Massawa as their home harbour; there was still no sign of an Italian advance. That rendered him crestfallen: he would really have nothing to report.
Out in the wilderness, on the Abyssinian border with Italian Somaliland, Archie Peydon was in his element. He was a Boy Scout turned soldier, unsuited to the routine of the task he now had, on a detached duty training native troops and camels in a backwater where nothing was ever going to happen, with an occasional visit from his CO, a Royal Marine of all bloody things, to tell him he was all wrong in the way he went about his duties.
The man craved action, prayed for a war, even one of the so-called police actions would do, just to relieve his boredom. Heaven knew that Britannia, with her commitments, had a bit of a conflict going on somewhere all the time.
Lying in scrub, with squatting camels and his askaris in the wadi behind him, he watched the Italians through his binoculars as they went about their duties in a desultory fashion. Nothing had changed since his last excursion to this spot, one no enemy would ever have got near to if he had been in command: there would have been an outpost on this spot for certain. It would have been no use pointing out to Peydon that the men he was watching were not his enemies: anyone not of the same nationality as he, Jocks, Taffs and Paddies excluded, was, in his mind, a foe.
It would be depressing to go back to this Jardine fellow and tell him the situation was unaltered. In his mind he had carried a vision of racing his camel force back into Berbera with exciting news, the kind of act that might get a mention to enhance his hitherto dull career. But it was not to be and so he slid back down the slope and signalled to his men to get themselves back on board their grunting beasts.
‘Mr Jardine.’ The knocking on the door was insistent and it was Mason’s voice, which had him out of his bed and dragging the chair from under the door handle, put there to avoid a repeat visit from the man’s wife, then opening it a crack. ‘I have received a radio message from a Mr Lanchester, saying the ship is in Aden.’
‘How long will our caravan take to get to Zeila?’
‘Dire Dawa is near the Ethiopian border, which is about one hundred and fifty miles of travel, as they need to move from oasis to oasis. That would normally take about ten days, but given what you are bringing, I would say they would push hard to do it in eight as long as they are not stopped and questioned.’
He and Mason had already discussed the risk of interception, which came down to the small chance of them encountering patrolling units of the Somali Camel Corps, who would wonder at a caravan coming out of Ethiopia by a little-used ro
ute carrying nothing. The main body of the corps was based in Hargeisa, which they would skirt round, and there were small units like Peydon’s at certain strategic points, as well as a reserve. But with the Italian build-up, Mason’s opinion was that the force would need to stay concentrated, while to call up reserves would cost money the governor did not have to spare.
Jardine’s next requirement was to get to Aden and aboard the Tarvita, and have it sail to the anchorage off Zeila, which would require some subterfuge. Also, he needed a local with knowledge of the coastline, because the only available Admiralty charts would be on board Grace’s patrol boat, not that it would have been wise to ask for them. The men who had transported him before, as well as their dhow, were pressed into service. The crossing also depended on a favourable wind and that was not forthcoming.
They sailed slowly back up the coastline, with Jardine going ashore at Zeila to ensure all the arrangements were in place. He also had to hand over to Xasan a second instalment of the agreed payment so he could actually gather the required men and boats. Then it was a journey in open sea straight across a wide part of the gulf to Aden, beating up tack on tack into a contrary wind, this to avoid the chance of being intercepted by the French, finally turning north close the Yemeni shore.
Two frustrating days passed before they sighted the high mountains that enclosed the huge natural harbour of Aden, the feature that made it so important, and several hours before they could get alongside the Tarvita, which was anchored well off Steamer Point, rocking on a swell which made a nightmare out of climbing the rope ladder dropped over the side.
‘You make a bloody awful pirate, Cal,’ said Lanchester as he finally made the deck. ‘No Blackbeard you, what? Perhaps we should have winched you aboard.’
‘A hello would be nice, Peter. Had any trouble?’
‘Have you ever tried to read Proust, old boy?’ A confused Jardine shook his head. ‘Thought not, or you wouldn’t ask.’
‘Vince, what is he talking about?’
‘Beats me, guv.’
‘Had a customs chappie aboard,’ Lanchester added, ‘but it’s the same old story: they’re not terribly interested if you are on your way to another port, and you have no idea how much confusion can be caused by him trying to understand the captain’s Turkish form of English.’
‘Do we need permission to get under way?’
‘Dues are paid but we should tell the harbour master, it seems.’
‘Well we are not going to. Tonight we will get the captain to darken the ship and head straight out to sea and we need to keep the dhow I came in within sight.’
‘Not me, old boy,’ Lanchester said, ‘this is where I bail out.’
‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’
‘All used up, Cal.’ Lanchester dropped his flippant tone. ‘Listen, old chap, if you do get the goods into the right hands, get out right away. That was the job, to deliver, and once the weapons are handed over, your involvement is finished.’
‘Why do you think it necessary to say that?’
‘I know you, that’s why.’ He turned to Vince. ‘I am relying on you to make sure he does what I have just said.’
‘Thanks a bunch, Mr Lanchester.’
‘How long will it take to get the stuff into Ethiopia, Cal?’
‘A week, maybe ten days after it is landed.’
‘And have you thought about how you are going to get yourself out?’
‘Peter, you worry about you and let me worry about me.’
That made Lanchester frown, but he clearly realised there was little point in saying more. ‘Vince, oblige me by getting the captain to warm up his motor launch while I go and pack.’
‘You’re not going to believe this, Peter, but I am actually going to miss your company.’
‘Get in touch when you get back to London.’
‘Will do.’
Lanchester’s last act was to pass over a large sum of Austrian thalers, the preferred currency in Ethiopia and Somalia, which went into Jardine’s belt. They saw him over the side within half an hour, heading for the shore and the offices of the passenger line that ran ships to and from India, which, as he had said, might give him time to see off Proust.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mindful of Captain Peydon’s story of his disappearing supply dump, Jardine was disinclined to unload the cargo until the Ethiopians arrived with their camels — he was not prepared to pile up a fortune in weapons on a Somali beach where they could be pilfered, for he suspected when it came to being light-fingered these people would not be far behind the Arabs, and a man like Cabdille Xasan would not stop them; if anything, he would encourage such a thing and seek to profit from the theft. What followed was two days of he and Vince sitting fretting offshore until Mason arrived by dhow to say the caravan was now at the wells of Tashoka.
Their leader was brought into Zeila, where the motor launch was waiting in the harbour to take him out to the Tarvita, and the introductions were made. She lay three miles out to sea: the captain had insisted they stay well offshore until unloading was imminent to give him some sea room in case of bad weather.
The Ethiopian was a tall man and not young, an elegant, grey-haired fellow called Ras Kassa Meghoum; the title equated to something like a prince or a duke. He was dressed in an embroidered garment that went to below his knees, his shoulders covered by a short red cloak. His skin was unlined and he moved with that Horn of Africa grace, which also applied to the way he spoke and acted, making it difficult to guess his age.
More importantly, he had the welcome gift of being able to communicate easily: he had learnt some English as a young man and perfected it in the two years he served as an ambassador in London, seeking to gain for his county the one thing they prized above all others, barring independance — access to the sea.
Jardine took a liking to him on first acquaintance; he had an honesty about him that was endearing, almost his first remark being that Britain had let down an old and trusted friend, though he was quick to accept what those present were doing went some way to make amends, as were the private backers who had provided the funds.
‘What I have managed to bring is not even a fraction, sir, of what you need,’ Jardine said. ‘No more than a symbolic contribution to show you that not all of my countrymen share the views of our government.’
‘And it is welcome, Mr Jardine. It is good that we know we still have friends in Britain. I am bound to ask who they are.’
‘And I am duty-bound to refuse to answer, sir,’ Jardine replied, covering for the fact that he did not really know.
It was with sonorous respect that Ras Kassa responded. ‘An offering is all the greater when the giver seeks no praise.’
‘Time to get them ashore, sir.’
The ras had brought a hundred camels to Zeila, as well as a hundred warriors who would escort the caravan back to Ethiopian soil, but when Jardine suggested, for the sake of increased speed, they might help unload, he refused for two reasons. First, their dignity as Shewan warriors would be offended, and secondly, because of the trouble it might cause with the local Somalis, given they despised each other — which reminded Jardine of what had been said to him by Geoffrey Amherst about the tribal nature of this part of the world.
Getting the ship as close inshore as possible was paramount: the lesser the distance, the quicker the goods would be landed, and that was tricky — running aground was not an option when the only tug they could send for would have to come from Aden. First they got labourers into the holds to shift the sacks of grain — they formed the final part of the payment to Cabdille Xasan — then they had to be got ashore and safely stored, with the ugly old sod counting in and weighing every bag.
When it came to the weapons and boxes of ammunition Vince took care of the loading end with Peter Lanchester’s very obvious Colt pistol in his belt. Jardine, likewise armed, escorted each consignment to shore and saw it handed over to Ras Kassa. Camels were being led to the shoreline in string
s of ten at a time to have panniers strapped on under his supervision, then taken back to the wells to be unloaded, given they would be rested there overnight.
It was slow going and hard work under a hot sun, so when, escorted by Mason, Tyler Alverson and Corrie Littleton arrived and issued cheerful greetings, they got the sharper end of Jardine’s tongue and were told to stay out of the way.
It was near to night when they got to the last crates, and once Vince’s baggage was on board the time came for he and Jardine to say farewell, which included rewarding the captain and spreading a few gratuities to the crew and the cook. The Suez Canal tonnage fees for the return were paid, as well as the cost of refuelling at Port Said.
Such a parting, especially for Vince, was not without a degree of sentiment, for this lot had not only accepted the risk but had behaved with real credit, so cheerful waves and cries of good luck in several languages marked the final parting.
There was trouble with Xasan, not that it came as a surprise, given the look of the man and his previous hard bargaining: Jardine expected he would demand extra payment, citing a list of imagined tasks over and above those previously agreed. He had to be bought off, though not without an argument.
If the ugly old bugger had not been told what the cargo was beforehand, it took no genius, given the presence of Ethiopians, even if he had no way of deciphering the German markings, to work out what the wooden crates contained. The border with French Somalia was not far off, and any talk of this contraband in the bazaars and tea shops of Djibouti could easily reach Italian ears, not much further up the coast.
The two Americans had bought a pair of donkeys, which were now burdened by a serious amount of baggage, not least Alverson’s typewriter and camera tripod. The American set up his Leica on that so he could take a photograph as a memento of Zeila and the story he would write, once the weapons were safely delivered, without, of course, using any names.
Vince was introduced and, easily identified as an ex-boxer, he found an immediate soulmate in the middle-aged newspaperman. The two of them were soon locked in what seemed like a competition to name the greatest number of famous pugilists, which lasted all the way to the wells, not, in truth, more than a mile distant, an oasis of verdant green in what was a barren landscape of sand and coastal scrub.