by M. M. Kaye
“Which is not to say that they do not understand it!” commented Madame Tissot warmingly.
Mrs Platt’s drawing-room was pleasantly cool after the sun-baked stuffiness of the closed carriage, and window blinds of split cane lent it a shadowed peace that was a welcome relief from the rutted, wind-blown roads. A white-robed houseboy served chilled coffee in long glasses, and as soon as the door had closed behind him Olivia said eagerly: “Now at last we can really talk!”
“Are you quite sure no one can overhear?” demanded Cressy, looking anxiously in the direction of the french windows. “You know that we cannot be too careful.”
Mrs Credwell nodded vigorous agreement, and rising from her chair, tiptoed to the hall door and jerked it open with the dramatic suddenness of one who fully expects to find an eavesdropper crouched on the far side of it, ear to keyhole. But the hall was empty, and nothing stirred on the long verandah outside the french windows except the sea-wind blowing through the arches and a lizard sunning himself on the hot stone.
“Not a soul about,” announced Mrs Credwell superfluously, returning to her chair: “And now Thérèse, we are all agog. What news?”
Thérèse Tissot turned her head to look thoughtfully at Hero, and then glanced again at her hostess, her brows raised in a silent question, and Cressy, interpreting the look correctly, said quickly: “It’s quite all right, Thérèse. You need have no anxiety on Hero’s behalf, because I have already told her something of the situation and I know she agrees with us.”
“So Jules Dubail informed me,” said Thérèse with a half smile. “He was a fellow-voyager of Mademoiselle’s, and it seems he discusses much with her and finds her très sympathique. All the same I cannot feel that she will wish to fatigue herself with our little affairs, so I would suggest that for this morning we talk of other matters, n’est-ce pas?”
“You are afraid she will blab!” accused Cressy indignantly. “Well, she won’t. Will you. Hero?”
“No,” said Hero calmly. “But I must tell you that if you are engaged in what I think, then Madame Tissot is right to be cautious. You would make a very poor conspirator, Cressy, for you are far too trusting.”
“But Hero, you do agree with us?”
“That the present Sultan should be deposed? Certainly. And from what I have seen of the appalling state of slavery and sanitation that prevails in this city, not to mention the shocking tolerance displayed towards evil-doers, the sooner it is done the better. Always provided that the Heir-Apparent is all that you imagine him to be, because I asked Uncle Nat about him, and he did not seem to be as certain on that point as you are, Cressy.”
“Your uncle. Mademoiselle,” intervened Thérèse gently, “must of necessity take a view that is more…how can I say it?…conservative? He has also a respect for the opinions of Colonel Edwards, who is the British Consul, and doubtless feels that he should support his confrere’s views on this subject. The Colonel’s Government support this man Majid because they say his father named him to succeed here. But who can doubt that had his father been spared, this altogether abominable young man would have been replaced as heir by his half-brother Seyyid Bargash? There is no need for us to say like parrots: “But the law is on Majid’s side.” What we have to ask ourselves is: ‘What of Justice?—is Justice also on his side? Or is it not rather upon the side of his suffering people?’”
Cressy and Mrs Credwell, carried away by their friend’s eloquence, nodded an enthusiastic agreement, but the question had been addressed to Hero, who said slowly: “I would still like to be certain that this man Bargash could be counted upon to put a stop to the slave trading that is being carried on here in Zanzibar. That seems to me to be the most important consideration. Can you be sure that he will not allow it to continue?”
Madame Tissot shook her head and said soberly: “It would be easy for me to lie to you Mademoiselle, and say ‘Yes, I am sure.’ But alas, I cannot say that. No one can say it: for this is not a thing that can be changed overnight, and much will depend on the will of his people—very many of whom regard it as a way of life. But of one thing I can assure you. If Bargash becomes Sultan he will instantly repudiate the iniquitous treaty with the British that permits the trade to be carried on from this island and its dependencies—and with it, too, the one that binds Zanzibar to pay a yearly tribute to the oldest brother, Thuwani! He will do this because he holds the British responsible for his father’s death, declaring that it was their refusal to help Saïd against the Persians that finally broke the old man’s heart. And because he believes that they betrayed his father we can be very certain that he will enter into no more treaties with them, and that, I can promise you, will change the whole face of the slave trade in these waters!”
“Yes,” agreed Hero thoughtfully, “it will indeed…And I own it is a point in his favour, for I have always considered that treaty to be a crying scandal that reflects no credit on the British. All the same, I have to confess that it would be reassuring to know a little more about his character and capabilities before committing myself to helping him to a throne. I have already been told that as Sultan he could not possibly be worse than his brother—my uncle told me this himself. But is that enough?”
“But I’ve already told you—” began Cressy indignantly.
Madame Tissot quelled her with a look, and turning back to Hero said with an approving smile: “You are right to be careful. Mademoiselle, and I honour you for it. But it may have to be enough. That is, if you are not prepared to accept our word for it that Seyyid Bargash is an infinitely more intelligent and enlightened man than his dissolute brother, and one who is capable of bringing the benefits of Western civilization to his people instead of leaving them to wallow in a state of medieval squalor. If you doubt me you have only to ask anyone in Zanzibar, and excepting only from Monsieur Edwards—or Majid himself!—you will receive the same answer. But since that would not only take up too much time when time is of great shortness, but could lead to much undesirable talk, I feel it would be better to adjourn this little meeting at once and forget that it ever took place. Better for your peace of mind; and more comfortable for you, no?”
Comfortable!…The word stung Hero as perhaps no other one could have done.
She had not come to Zanzibar to be “comfortable’. And the little Frenchwoman was quite right, of course. To be asking searching questions of all and sundry as to whether the Heir-Apparent would make a better Sultan than his brother could only serve to alert Majid and his supporters—among them that slave trader. Frost!—to the possibility of a coup in favour of Bargash, which (once warned) they would certainly nip in the bud, and in a manner that was likely to be exceedingly unpleasant for all concerned. No, she could not risk that. And in any case, had she not already been told, and by no less a person than the French Consul’s son, that the entire foreign community, with the exception of the British Consul, were in favour of Bargash as ruler? Why, even the Virago’s perfidious Captain had admitted that the younger brother was the better man! And Uncle Nat’s verdict, though hardly laudatory, had confirmed both opinions…
According to Uncle Nat, Majid had “nothing to recommend him except that he happened to be the son of his father’, while Bargash at least possessed sufficient strength of character to inspire respect among the islanders and “make them toe the line whether they like it or not’. So why should she doubt Madame Tissot, Cressy and Mrs Credwell, who all supported this view, and had all lived in Zanzibar quite long enough to know what they were talking about?—even Cressy, who had been there for a year. Not that she would have been prepared to take her cousin’s unsupported opinions on such a matter on trust—or Mrs Credwell’s either! But Madame Tissot was a bird of a very different feather, for she was clearly both shrewd and capable, and not in the least likely to be taken in by any sentimental nonsense. If she supported Bargash it would be for strictly practical reasons, and not for any of the romantic ones that motivated Cressy and Olivia Credwell. Of that Hero felt quite
certain.
She was aware that the others were waiting for her reply, but though she knew by now what that reply would be, she remained silent for a further moment or two: thinking again, as she had thought on her first day in Zanzibar when she had listened to Cressy’s breathless talk of a weak and vicious Sultan and a bold Heir-Apparent, impatient for a throne, ‘This, surely, is the work that is waiting for me to do.’ It could even be that this Frenchwoman, and not Clay, was the one who was destined to help her do it, and that this was the very moment that old Biddy Jason had foretold—the ‘time to choose’. Well, she was ready for it, and she had chosen. She would ‘do what she had to do’.
She said aloud and briskly: “You must forgive me if I seemed to doubt you. I did not mean to be rude; only to be sure. I feel certain that you are right, and I hope very much that you will not adjourn the meeting, but tell us instead what we can do to help.”
“Bravo!” applauded Olivia. “That’s the spirit, dear Miss Hollis. Action! The time for talk is past and we must turn to deeds.”
“Yes, but what deeds?” asked Cressy.
“That Thérèse will tell us. She has news for us; isn’t that so, Thérèse?”
“Indeed yes. But first you must swear to me, on your oaths most sacred, that what I shall tell you, you will disclose to no one. To no one at all. Is it agreed?”
Receiving their solemn assurances, she lowered her voice and spoke rapidly and with a wealth of gesture:
Support for the Heir-Apparent, said Madame Tissot, was increasing rapidly among the population, and not only had the powerful chiefs of the el Harth tribe decided to throw in their lot with him, but a very large sum of money had been dispatched to him by his eldest brother, Thuwani of Muscat and Oman, for the purpose of financing his followers. Gold in the form of coins, unminted ingots and plate that could be sold or melted down…
Gold! thought Hero. How could she have known—that ragged old crone who made a dubious living telling fortunes to cooks and kitchen-maids in Boston? And yet it was all coming true. First the voyage and then the work. And now the gold…the “gold past counting’ that she was to lay her hand on but get no good from. Which was only fair and right. It was the people of Zanzibar who would reap the benefit of it, and she would not have had it otherwise…
Thérèse was saying: “Those who support him must be paid, you understand, since many of them, because of their loyalty, have fallen from favour and lost their employment There are also many more who wish very greatly to follow him, but cannot do so because they fear to starve. So he has great need of money.”
The gold, explained Thérèse, had arrived safely and was at the moment reposing in the cellar of a house in the city, from whence it must be removed as soon as possible to some safer hiding place until the means could be devised to smuggle it into the Heir-Apparent’s house:
“It cannot stay where it is now, for every moment it remains there it is in great danger of being discovered, and the owner of the house in which it lies has become very nervous. He is an Indian merchant, you see. A Banyan; and all these Banyans are afraid of Colonel Edwards, because being British subjects they may not keep slaves, and as their Consul he can demand to search their houses. Balu Ram is a friend of someone who has helped us greatly but whose name must not be known, and this is why he agreed to hide the treasure. But now he hears that the Colonel suspects him of concealing slaves, and so he begs that it should be instantly removed—tonight if possible. But where to take it? That is the difficulty, because it cannot be taken to the house of any who are known to support Bargash, in case they may be watched by the Sultan’s spies.”
“Could it not come here?” enquired Hero.
There was a brief moment of startled silence, and then Olivia Credwell clapped her hands and said: “But of course I Oh, you clever, clever girl! What could be better?”
“But Olivia chérie—reflect…consider…!”
Mrs Credwell’s flounces whirled: “I don’t have to consider. Why, with Hubert and Jane in Pemba it will be the easiest thing in the world! They don’t get back until next week, which will give us plenty of time to decide how to transfer the money to the Prince’s house.”
“But these are not small objects, chérie. They are chests, large and of a great heaviness. Where would you conceal them?”
“In my boxroom, of course, Jane gave me one where I could store my trunks. It is next to my bedroom and I have always kept it locked because one never knows, does one…with native servants? No one but myself ever goes in there, and it would be ideal, since it is quite shielded from the servants’ quarters. Besides, the side gate into the garden is right opposite and no distance away, so nothing could be better.”
“Bon! Then Balu Ram shall have the chests brought here this very night. You permit, Olivia?”
“Of course, Thérèse dear. It will be a privilege. Gold!…Oh dear, I do trust it will be safe? Supposing anyone…”
Cressy said uneasily: “It will not be used to buy anything—anything dangerous will it? I mean—guns, or bullets or anything dreadful like that?”
“Dear Cressy,” said Thérèse affectionately, “you are so tender-hearted. But you need have no fear. No fear at all.”
“Cressy is quite right,” interrupted Hero firmly. “We must first be certain of that. I for one could not countenance anything in the nature of violence, and I am sure we are all in agreement over that.”
“Indeed, yes. You may rest assured there will be no violence. The Seyyid Bargash has too great an attachment to his people to permit such a tiling, while as for the Sultan—bah! The Sultan is of a timidity quite remarkable. No, no, dear Mademoiselle, what is planned is a revolution without blood. A coup d’etat. That is why so much money is needed, because it is as I have told you: there are here, as everywhere, many people who do not range themselves either on one side or the other, but who may be bought.”
“You mean bribed,” said Hero with a distinct trace of disapproval.
Madame Tissot shrugged her plump shoulders. “It is the same thing, n’est-ce pas? They are poor people and they must eat. Their families must live, and therefore they fear to speak against the tyranny of the Sultan. But if there is the promise of money they will side openly with Seyyid Bargash, whom already they love. And once they have added themselves to those other loyal ones a coup d’etat arranges itself with no trouble and no blows, for what can the Sultan do if the whole city and every man of all the villages is in support of his brother Bargash? He can only retire peacefully to this new palace of Dar-es-Salaam that he builds for himself on the mainland, while his brother ascends the throne to the acclamation of all, and begins the long and hard task of abolishing the injustices and poverty and serfdom that have afflicted his people for so long.”
Olivia Credwell looked as though she was about to applaud again, but Hero’s expression was still doubtful, and Madame Tissot laughed and shook a beringed finger at her:
“Is it that you do not think it can be accomplished? Or is it that knowing nothing as yet of the East you think it is not right to buy supporters with money? Well, that is your affair. But for myself, I think it better to buy men than to kill them. We know that the Sultan’s party have obtained many muskets, and if the Seyyid Bargash’s party were to do likewise there would be only one end to this affair; fighting and bloodshed and many deaths. That, you will agree, we cannot permit, and it is to save the good citizens from such a fate that this treasure has been sent from Muscat. To purchase the support of those who—how do you say it?—‘seat themselves upon the fence.’ You understand?”
“Yes, of course,” agreed Hero; realizing with relief that even such a venal scoundrel as Emory Frost would not contemplate selling arms to the enemies of his most influential protector. But it was disquieting to learn that the Sultan’s faction were arming themselves, and the sooner the money from Muscat was in safe hands the better. There was obviously not a moment to lose.
“Then if we are all of one mind,” said T
hérèse Tissot, “it only remains to devise some way by which we may convey them safely into the hands of Seyyid Bargash: which will not be easy, since the Sultan’s spies watch the houses of all who support Bargash. They have even stopped and searched vegetable sellers and water carriers and slaves carrying washing, and it is certain that they will never permit chests full of treasure to pass in without question.”
“No, I guess not,” said Hero, pondering the matter. “But we four should be able to take it into Beit-el-Tani—though not in chests of course. I don’t suppose a gold bar can be very large, and we could wear our capes. No one would dare search us; or question our paying calls on the Princesses either. We could carry any number of coins in our reticules, and it should be possible to conceal the larger pieces of plate under our hoops.”
It seemed a workable solution, but Madame Tissot regretfully vetoed it. The chests, she explained, were secured against theft by locks upon which the Seyyid Thuwani had placed his personal seal, and if they had any hand in breaking those seals, and the treasure should later prove to be less than was anticipated, it would immediately be said that the white women had helped themselves to part of it and that it was now plain why they had troubled to interest themselves in the matter. This was a risk they could not take, since like Caesar’s wife they must be above suspicion.
Hero cordially agreed, and substituted the suggestion that both Madame Tissot’s and Mrs Platt’s carriages should be pressed into service to transport the chests one by one, or if possible two at a time, to Beit-el-Tani, from where the Seyyida Cholé could be trusted to see that they came to her brother’s hands. Olivia and Thérèse would have to go with them to lend colour to the fiction of a social call, and some arrangement would have to be made whereby they could drive into the courtyard at the back of the palace instead of going round to the front door. There was such a courtyard, added Hero, because she had seen it from one of the windows as they were being taken up to see the Seyyidas that morning, and though it was probably a private entrance and not normally used by visitors, the gate leading into it seemed amply wide enough to admit a carriage, and perhaps some story could be concocted to explain their making use of it: