by Talbot Mundy
—— —— —— — * Jambo, good day. —— —— —— —
“You send for me? You want a good guide?”
The Haroun-al-Raschid look had disappeared. Now he was the jack-of-all-trades, wondering which end of the jack to push in first.
“When I need a guide I’ll get a licensed one,” said Fred, sitting down and turning partly away from him. (It never pays to let those gentry think they have impressed you.) “What is your business, Johnson?”
“My name Hassan, sah. You send for me? You want a headman. I’m formerly headman for Tippoo Tib, knowing all roads, and how to manage wapagazi,* safari,* * all things!”
—— —— —— —
* Wapagazi, plural of pagazi, porter.
* * Safari, journey, and, by inference, outfit for a journey.
—— —— —— —
“Any papers to prove it?” asked Fred.
“No, sir. Reference to Tippoo Tib himself sufficient! He my part-uncle.”
“Ready to tell any kind of a lie for you, eh?”
“No, sir, always telling truth! You got a cook yet?”
“Can you cook?” Fred answered guardedly.
“Yes, sah. Was cook formerly for Master Stanley, go with him on expedition. Later his boy. Later his headman. You want to go on expedition, I getting you good cook. Where you want to go?”
“Are you looking for a job?” asked Fred.
“What you after? Ivory?”
“Maybe.”
“I know all about ivory — I shoot, trade ivory along o’ Tippoo Tib an’
Stanley. You engage my services, all very well.”
“Go and tell Tippoo Tib we want to see him. If he confirms what you say, perhaps we’ll take you on,” said Fred.
“Tell Tippoo Tib? Ha-ha! You want to find his buried ivory — that it?
All white men wanting that! All right, I go tell him! I come again!”
“Come back here, you fat rascal!” ordered Fred. “What do you mean about buried ivory? What buried ivory?”
Hassan’s face lost some of its transcendent cheek. Even the dyed beard seemed to wilt.
“What you wanting?” he asked. “Hunt, trade, travel — what your business?”
“Fish!” Fred answered genially.
“Samaki?”
“Yes — samaki — fish!”
Having no experience of Arabs, and part-Arabs, I wondered what on earth Fred could be driving at. But Hassan wondered still more, and that was the whole point. He stood agape, looking from one to the other of us, his fat good-natured face an interrogation mark.
“I go an’ tell bwana Tippoo Tib!” he announced, and departed swiftly.
“What’s the idea of fish, Fred?” I asked.
“Oh, just curiosity. The way of getting information out of colored folk is to get them so frantically curious they’ve no time to think up lies. Tobacco would have done as well — anything unexpected. A bird flying, and a black man lying, — are both of ’em easy to catch or confuse unless they know which way they’re heading. Let’s go and look at the bazaar.”
But in order to look one had to reach. We left the great heavy-beamed hotel that had once been Tippoo Tib’s residence, but were stopped in the outer doorway by a crowd of native boys, each with a brass plate on his arm.
“Guide, sah! — Guide, sah! — My name ‘McPhairson, sah! — My name Jones, sah! — My name Johnson, sah! Guide to all the sights, sah!”
They were as persistent and evilly intentioned as a swarm of flies, and bold enough to strike back when anybody kicked them. While we wrestled and swore, but made no headway, we were accosted by a Greek, who seemed from long experience able to pass through them without striking or being struck. We were not left in doubt another second as to whether our friend Hassan had dallied on the way, and held his tongue or not.
“Good day, gentlemen! I hear you are after fish! Hah! That is a good story to tell to Arabs! You mean fishing for information, eh? Ha-hah!”
He turned on the swarm of boys, who still yelled and struggled about our legs.
“Imshi!* Voetsak!* * Enenda zako!* * * Kuma nina, wewe!* * * *” In a minute he had them all scattering, for only innocence and inexperience attract the preying youth of Zanzibar. “Now, gentlemen, my name is Coutlass — Georges Coutlass. Have a drink with me, and let me tell you something.”
—— —— —— —— * Imshi (Arabic), get to hell out of here! * * Voetsak (Cape Dutch), ditto. * * * Enenda zako (Kiswahill), ditto. * * * * Kuma nina (Kiswahill). An opprobrious, and perhaps the commonest expletive In the language, amounting to a request for details of the objurgee’s female ancestry. By no means for use in drawing-rooms. —— —— —— —— —
He was tall, dark skinned, athletic, and roguish-looking even for the brand of Greek one meets with south of the Levant — dressed in khaki, with an American cowboy hat — his fingers nearly black with cigarette juice — his hands unusually horny for that climate — and his hair clipped so short that it showed the bumps of avarice and other things, said to reside below the hat-band to the rear. Yet a plausible, companionable-seeming man. And Zanzibar confers democratic privilege, as well as fevers; impartiality hovers in the atmosphere as well as smells, and we neither of us dreamed of hesitating, but followed him back into the bar — a wide, low-ceilinged room whose beams were two feet thick of blackened, polished hard wood. There we sat one each side of him in cane armchairs. He ordered the drinks, and paid for them.
“First I will tell you who I am,” he said, when he had swallowed a foot-long whisky peg and wiped his lips with his coat sleeve. “I never boast. I don’t need to! I am Georges Coutlass! I learned that you have an English lord among your party, and said I to myself ‘Aha! There is a man who will appreciate me, who am a citizen of three lands!’ Which of you gentlemen is the lord?”
“How can you be a citizen of three countries?” Fred countered.
“Of Greece, for I was born in Greece. I have fought Turks. Ah! I have bled for Greece. I have spilt my blood in many lands, but the best was for my motherland! — Of England, for I became naturalized. By bloody-hell-and-Waterloo, but I admire the English! They have guts, those English, and I am one of them! By the great horn spoon, yes, I became an Englishman at Bow Street one Monday morning, price Five Pounds. I was lined up with the drunks and pick-pockets, and by Jumbo the magistrate mistook me for a thief! He would have given me six months without the option in another minute, but I had the good luck to remember how much money I had paid my witnesses. The thought of paying that for nothing — worse than nothing, for six months in jail! — in an English jail! — pick oakum! — eat skilly! — that thought brought me to my senses. ‘By Gassharamminy,’ I said, ‘I may be mad, but I’m sober! If it’s a crime to desire to be English, then punish me, but let me first commit the offense!’ So he laughed, and didn’t question my witnesses very carefully — one was a Jew, the other an ex-German, and either of them would swear to anything at half price for a quantity — and they kissed the Book and committed perjury — and lo and behold, I was English as you are — English without troubling a midwife or the parson! Five pounds for the ‘beak’ at Bow Street — fifty for the witnesses — fifty-five all told — and cheap at the price! I had money in those days. It was after our short war with Turkey. We Greeks got beaten, but the Turks did not get all the loot! By prison and gallows, no! When our men ran before a battle, I did not run — not I! I remained, and by Croesus I grew richer in an hour than I have ever been since!”
“That’s two countries,” said I. “Which is the third that has the honor to claim your allegiance?”
“Honor is right!” he answered with a proud smile. “I, Georges Coutlass, have honored three flags! I am a credit to all three countries! The third is America — the U. S. A. You might say that is the corollary of being English — the natural, logical, correct sequence! The U. S. laws are strict, but their politics were devised for — what is it the preachers call it — ah, yes, for straining out gnats
and swallowing camels. By George Washington they would swallow a house on fire! There was a federal election shortly due. One of the parties — Democratic — Republican — I forget which — maybe both! — needed new voters. The law says it takes five years to become a citizen. Politics said fifteen minutes! The politicians paid the fees too! I was a citizen — a voter — an elector of presidents before I had been ashore three months, and I had sold my vote three times over within a month of that! They had me registered under three names in three separate wards! I didn’t need the money — I had plenty in those days — I gave the six dollars I received for my votes to the Holy Church, and voted the other way to save my conscience; but the fun of the thing appealed! By Gassharamminy! I can’t take life the way the copy-books lay down! I have to break laws or else break heads! But I love America! I fought and bled for America! By Abraham Lincoln, I fought those Spaniards until I don’t doubt they wished I had stayed in Greece! Yes, I left that middle finger in Cuba — shot through the left hand by a Don, think of it, a Don! When I came out of hospital — and I never saw anything worse than that hot hell! — I got myself attached to the commissariat, and the pickings were none so bad. Had to hand over too much, though. That is the worst of America, there is no genuine liberty. You have to steal for the man higher up. If you keep more than ten per cent., he squeals. He has to pass most of it on again to some one else, and so on, and they all land in jail in course of time! Give me a country where a man can keep what he finds! There was talk about congressional inquiries. Then a friend of mine — a Greek — who had been out here told me of Tippoo Tib’s ivory, and it looked all right to me to change scenes for a while. I had citizenship papers — U. S., and English, and a Greek passport in case of accident. Traveling looked good to me.”
“If you traveled on a Greek passport you couldn’t use citizenship papers of any other country,” Fred objected.
“Who said I traveled on a Greek passport? Do you take me for such a fool? Who listens to a Greek consul? He may protest, and accept fees, but Greece is a little country and no one listens to her consuls. I carry a Greek passport in case I should find somewhere someday a Greek consul with influence or a Greek whom I wish to convince. I traveled to South Africa as an American. I went to Cape Town with the idea of going to Salisbury, and working my way up from there as a trader into the Congo. I reached Johannesburg, and there I did a little I. D. B. and one thing and another until the Boer War came. Then I fought for the Boers. Yes, I have bled for the Boer cause. It was a damned bad cause! They robbed me of nearly all my money! They left me to die when I was wounded! It was only by the grace of God, and the intrigues of a woman that I made my way to Lourenco Marquez. No, the war was not over, but what did I care? I, Georges Coutlass, had had enough of it! I recompensed myself en route. I do not fight for a bunch of thieves for nothing! I sailed from Lourenco Marquez to Mombasa. I hunted elephant in British East Africa until they posted a reward for me on the telegraph poles. The law says not more than two elephants in one year. I shot two hundred! I sold the ivory to an Indian, bought cattle, and went down into German East Africa. The Masai attacked me, stole some of the cattle, and killed others. The Germans, damn and blast them, took the rest! They accused me of crimes — me, Georges Coutlass! — and imposed fines calculated carefully to skin me of all I had! Roup and rotten livers! but I will knock them head-over-halleluja one fine day! Not for nothing shall they flim-flam Georges Coutlass! Which of you gentlemen is the lord?”
We bought him another drink, and watched it disappear with one uninterrupted gurgle down its appointed course.
“What did you do next?” Fred asked him before he had recovered breath enough to question us. “I suppose the Germans had you at a loose end?”
“Do you think that? Sacred history of hell! It takes more than a lousy military German to get Georges Coutlass at a loose end! They must get me dead before that can happen! And then, by Blitzen, as those devils say, a dead Georges Coutlass will be better than a thousand dead Germans! In hell I will use them to clean my boots on! At a loose end, was I? I met this bloody rogue Hassan — the fat blackguard who told me you have come to Zanzibar for fish — and made an agreement with him to look for Tippoo Tib’s buried ivory. Yes, sir! I showed him papers. He thought they were money drafts. He thought me a man of means whom he could bleed. I had guns and ammunition, he none. He pretended to know where some of Tippoo Tib’s ivory is buried.”
“Some of it, eh?” said Fred.
“Some of it, d’you say?” said I.
“Some of it, yes. A million tusks. Some say two million! Some say three! Thunder! — you take a hundred good tusks and bury them; you’ll see the hill you’ve made from five miles off! A hundred thousand tusks would make a mountain! If any one buried a million tusks in one spot they’d mark the place on maps as a watershed! They must be buried here, there, everywhere along the trail of Tippoo Tib — perhaps a thousand in one place at the most. Which of you two gentlemen is the lord?”
“Did Hassan lead you to any of it?” Fred inquired.
“Not he! The jelly-belly! The Arab pig! He led me to Ujiji — that’s on Lake Tanganika — the old slave market where he himself was once sold for ten cents. I don’t doubt a piece of betel nut and a pair of worn-out shoes had to be thrown in with him at the price! There he tried to make me pay the expenses in advance of a trip to Usumbora at the head of the lake. God knows what it would have cost, the way he wanted me to do it! Are you the lord, sir?”
“What did you do?” asked Fred.
“Do? I parted company! I had made him drunk once. (The Arabs aren’t supposed to drink, so when they do they get talkative and lively!) And I knew Arabic before ever I crossed the Atlantic — learned it in Egypt — ran away from a sponge-fishing boat when I was a boy. No, they don’t fish sponges off the Nile Delta, but you can smuggle in a sponge boat better than in most ships. Anyhow, I learned Arabic. So I understood what that pig Hassan said when he talked in the dark with his brother swine. He knew no more than I where the ivory was! He suspected most of it was in a country called Ruanda that runs pretty much parallel with the Congo border to the west of Victoria Nyanza in German East Africa, and he was counting on finding natives who could tell him this and that that might put him on the trail of it! I could beat that game! I could cross-examine fool natives twice as well as any fat rascal of an ex-slave! Seeing he had paid all expenses so far, however, I was not much to the bad, so I picked a quarrel with him and we parted company. Wouldn’t you have done the same, my lord?”
But Fred did not walk into the trap. “What did you do next?” he asked.
“Next? I got a job with the agent of an Italian firm to go north and buy skins. He made me a good advance of trade goods — melikani,* beads, iron and brass wire, kangas,* * and all that sort of thing, and I did well. Made money on that trip. Traveled north until I reached Ruanda — went on until I could see the Fire Mountains in the distance, and the country all smothered in lava. Reached a cannibal country, where the devils had eaten all the surrounding tribes until they had to take to vegetarianism at last.”
—— —— —— —— * Melikani, the unbleached calico made in America that is the most useful trade goods from sea to sea of Central Africa. * * Kanga, cotton piece goods. —— —— —— ——
“But did you find the ivory?” Fred insisted.
“No, or by Jiminy, I wouldn’t be here! If I’d found it I’d have settled down with a wife in Greece long ago. I’d be keeping an inn, and growing wine, and living like a gentleman! But I found out enough to know there’s a system that goes with the ivory Tippoo Tib buried. If you found one lot, that would lead you to the next, and so on. I got a suspicion where one lot is, although I couldn’t prove it. And I made up my mind that the German government knows darned well where a lot of it is!”
“Then why don’t the Germans dig it up?” demanded Fred.
“Aha!” laughed Coutlass. “If I know, why should I tell! If they know, why should they tell?
Suppose that some of it were in Congo territory, and some in British East Africa? Suppose they should want to get the lot? What then? If they uncovered their bit in German East Africa mightn’t that put the Congo and the British on the trail?”
“If they know where it is,” said I, “they’ll certainly guard it.”
“Which of you is the lord?” demanded Coutlass earnestly.
“What do you suppose Hassan is doing, then, here in Zanzibar?” asked
Fred.
“Rum and eggs! I know what he is doing! When I snapped my thumb under his fat nose and told him about the habits of his female ancestors be went to the Germans and informed against me! The sneak-thief! The turn-coat! The maggot! I shall not forget! I, Georges Coutlass, forget nothing! He informed against me, and they set askaris* on my trail who prevented me from making further search. I had to sit idle in Usumbura or Ujiji, or else come away; and idleness ill suits my blood! I came here, and Hassan followed me. The Germans made a regular, salaried spy of him — the semi-Arab rat! The one-tenth Arab, nine-tenths mud-rat! Here he stays in Zanzibar and spies on Tippoo Tib, on me, on the British government, and on every stranger who comes here. His information goes to the Germans. I know, for I intercepted some of it! He writes it out in Arabic, and provided no woman goes through the folds of his clothes or feels under that silken belly-piece be wears, the Germans get it. But if a woman does, and she’s a friend of mine, that’s different! Are you the lord, sir?”
—— —— —— —— — * Askari, native soldier. —— —— —— —— —
“What do you propose?” asked Fred.
“Help me find that ivory!” said Coutlass. “I have very little money left, but I have guns, and courage! I know where to look, and I am not afraid! No German can scare me! I am English-American-Greek! — better than any hundred Germans! Let us find the ivory, and share it! Let us get it out through British territory, or the Congo, so that no German sausage can interfere with us or take away one tusk! Gee-rusalem, how I hate the swine. Let us put one over on them! Let us get the ivory to Europe, and then flaunt the deed under their noses! Let us send one little tip of a female tusk to the Kaiser for a souvenir — female in proof it is all illegitimate, illegal, outlawed! Let us send him a piece of ivory and a letter telling him all about it, and what we think of him and his swine-officials! His lieutenants and his captains! Let us smuggle the ivory out through the Congo — it can be done! It can be done! I, Georges Coutlass, will find the ivory, and find the way!”