by Wilbur Smith
halls of the League of Nations in Geneva, trying to gather pledges of
support for his country in the face of the gathering storm clouds of
Fascist Italian aspirations towards an African Empire.
The Lij was a disillusioned man when he disembarked with four of his
senior advisers and made the short journey by lighter to where two
hired open tourers awaited his arrival on the wharf. Hire of the motor
vehicles had been arranged by Major Gareth Swales and the drivers had
been given their instructions.
"Now, you leave the talking to me, old chap," Gareth advised Jake,
as they waited anxiously in the cavernous and gloomy depths of No. 4
Warehouse. "This really is my part of the show, you know. You just
look stern and do the demonstrating. That will impress the old Ethiop
no end." Gareth was resplendent in a pale blue tropical suit with a
fresh white carnation in the buttonhole, and silk shirt. He wore the
diagonally striped old school tie, his hair was brilliantined and
carefully brushed, and the sleek lines of the mustache had been trimmed
that morning. He ran a judicious eye over his partner and was mildly
satisfied. Jake's suit had not been cut in Savile Row, of course, but
it was adequate for the occasion, clean and freshly pressed. His shoes
had been newly polished and the usually unruly profusion of curls had
been wetted and slicked down neatly.
He had scrubbed all traces of grease from his large bony hands and from
under his fingernails.
"They probably don't even speak English," Gareth gave his opinion.
"Have to use the old sign language, you know.
Wish you'd let me have that dead one. We could have palmed it off on
them. They are bound to be a gullible lot, throw in a handful of beads
and a bag of salt-" He was interrupted by the sound of approaching
engines.
"This will be them, now. Don't forget what I told you." The two open
tourers pulled up in the bright sunlight beyond the doors and disgorged
their passengers. Four of them wore the long flowing white shammas,
full-length robes like Roman togas draped across the shoulder.
Under the robes they wore black gabardine riding breeches and open
sandals. They were all of them elderly men, the dense bushes of their
hair shot through with strands of grey and the dark faces wrinkled and
lined. In dignified silence they gathered about the taller, younger
figure clad in a dark western-style suit and they moved forward into
the cool gloom of the warehouse.
Lij Mikhael was well over six feet in height, with a slight scholarly
stoop to his shoulders. His skin was the colour of dark honey and his
hair and beard were a thick. curly halo about the finely boned face,
with dark thoughtful eyes and the narrow nose with its
Semitic beak. Despite the stoop, he walked with the grace of a
swordsman and his teeth when he smiled were glisteningly white against
the dark skin.
"By Jove," said the Lij, in the drawling accent that echoed
Gareth's with surprising accuracy. "It is Forty swales isn't it?"
Major Gareth Swales's composure seemed to fall away, leaving him
tottering mentally at the use of a nickname he had last heard twenty
years before. He had been so branded when his unexpected attack of
flatus had clapped and echoed from the vaulted ceiling and stone walls
of College Chapel. He had hoped never to hear it spoken again, and now
its use took him back to that moment when he had stood in the cold
stone chapel and the waves of suppressed laughter had broken over his
head like physical blows.
The Prince laughed now, and touched the knot of his necktie. For the
first time Jake realized that the diagonal stripes were identical to
those that Gareth Swales wore at his own throat.
"Eton 1915 Waynflete's. I was Captain of the House. I gave you six
for smoking in the bogs don't you remember?"
"My God," gasped
Gareth. "Toffee Sagud. My God. I just don't know what to say."
"Try him with the old sign language, then," murmured Jake helpfully.
"Shut up, damn you," hissed Gareth, and then with a conscious effort he
resurrected the smile that lit the gloomy warehouse like the rising of
the sun.
"Your Excellency Toffee my dear fellow." He hurried forward with hand
outstretched. "What a great and unexpected pleasure." They shook
hands laughing, and the solemn dark faces of the elderly advisers
lightened with sympathetic merriment.
"Let me introduce my partner, Mr. Jake Barton of Texas.
Mr. Barton is a brilliant engineer and financier Jake, this is
His Excellency Lij Mikhael Wasan Sagud, Deputy Governor of Shoo and an
old and dear friend of mine." The Prince's hand was narrow-boned, cool
and firm. His gaze was quick and penetrating before he turned back
to
Gareth.
"When were you expelled? Summer of 1915 wasn't it?
Caught boffing one of the maids, as I recall."
"Good Lord, no!"
Gareth was horrified. "Never the hired help. Actually, it was the
house master's daughter."
"That's right. I remember now. You were famous went out in a blaze of
glory. Talk about your feat lasted for months. They said you went to
France with the Duke's, and did jolly well for yourself." Gareth made
a deprecating gesture, and Lij Mikhael asked, "Since then what have you
been doing, old chap?" Which was a thoroughly embarrassing question
for Gareth. He made a few airy gestures with his cheroot.
This and that, you know. One thing and another.
Business, you understand. Importing, exporting, buying and selling."
"Which brings us to the present business, does it not?" the
Prince asked gently.
"Indeed, it does," agreed Gareth and took the Prince's arm. "Now that
I realize who is buying, it only increases my pleasure in managing to
assemble a package of such high quality." The wooden crates were
stacked neatly along one wall of the warehouse.
"A .
"Fourteen Vickers machine guns, most of them straight from the factory
hardly a shot through the barrels-" They passed slowly down the array
of merchandise to where one of the machine guns had been uncrated and
set up on its tripod.
"As YOU can see, all first-class stuff." The five Ethiopians were all
warriors, from a long warlike line, and they had the true warrior's
love of and delight in the weapons of war. They crowded eagerly around
the gun.
Gareth winked at Jake, and went on, "One hundred and forty-four
Lee-Enfield service rifles, still in the grease-" Half a dozen of the
rifles had been cleaned and laid out on display.
No. 4 Warehouse was an Aladdin's Cave for them. The elderly courtiers
forgot their dignity, and fell upon the weapons like a flock of crows,
cackling in Amharic as they fondled the cold oiled steel.
They hoisted up the skirts of their shammas to crouch behind the
demonstration machine gun and traversed it happily, making the staccato
schoolboy imitations of automatic fire as they mowed down imaginary
hordes of their enemies
.
Even Lij Mikhael forsook his Etonian manners and joined in the
delighted examination of the hoard, pushing aside an old greybeard of
seventy to take his place at the Vickers gun and triggering off a noisy
squabble amongst the others in which Gareth diplomatically
intervened.
"I say, Toffee, old chap. This isn't all I have for you. Not by a
long chalk. I've kept the plums for the last." And Jake helped him to
gather up the robed and bearded group of excited old men and herd them
gently away from the display of weapons and down the warehouse to the
open tourers.
The motorcade, headed by Gareth, Jake and the Prince in the leading
tourer, came bumping down the dusty track through the mahogany forest
and parked in the clearing in front of the candy-striped marquee that
had taken the place of Jake's weather-beaten bell tent.
The Royal Hotel had undertaken to cater for the occasion, despite
Jake's protests at the cost.
"Give them a bottle of Tusker each and open a tin of beans," he
insisted, but Gareth had shaken his head sadly.
"Just because they are savages doesn't mean that we have to behave like
barbarians, old chap. Style. One has to have style that's what life
is all about. Style and timing. Fill them up with Charlie and then
take them for a stroll down the garden path, what?" Now there were
white-robed waiters with red sashes and little red pillbox fezes upon
their heads. Under the marquee, long trestle-tables were laden with
displays of choice food decorated sucking pig, heaped salvers of boiled
scarlet reef lobster, a smoked salmon, imported apples and peaches from
the Cape of Good Hope and case upon case, bucket upon bucket of
champagne. Although Gareth had been swayed t by Jake's pleas for
economy sufficiently to order a Veuve Clicquot not of a selected
vintage.
The Prince and his entourage disembarked to a salvo of champagne corks
and the elderly courtiers crowed with delight. Quite by chance,
Gareth had struck upon the Ethiopians" love of feasting and strong
sense of hospitality.
Little that he could have done would have endeared him more to his
guests.
"I say, this is very decent of you, my dear Swales" said the
Prince. With his innate sense of courtesy, he had not used Gareth's
nickname since the first greeting. Gareth was grateful and when the
glasses were filled he called for the first toast.
"His Majesty, Negusa Nagast, King of Kings, Emperor Baile
Selassie, Lion of Judah." And they drained their glasses, which seemed
to be the correct form, so Gareth and Jake imitated them, and then they
fell upon the food, giving Gareth a chance to whisper to Jake, "Think
up some more toasts we've got to get them filled up." But he needn't
have worried for the Prince came in with: "His Britannic Majesty,
George V, King of England and Emperor of India." And no sooner were
the glasses filled again than he bowed to Jake and lifted his glass.
"The President of the United States of America, Mr. Franklin D.
Roosevelt." Not to be outdone, each of the courtiers shouted an
unintelligible toast in Amharic, presumably to the Prince and his
father and mother and aunts, uncles and nieces, and the glasses were
upended. The waiters rushed back and forth to the steady report of
champagne corks.
"The Governor of the British Colony of Tanganyika." Gareth lifted his
glass, slurring slightly.
"And the Governor's daughter," Jake murmured sardonically.
This provoked another round of toasts from the robed guests, and then
it dawned on Jake and Gareth simultaneously that it was folly to try
drinking level with men who had been bred and reared on the fiery tej
of Ethiopia.
"How are you feeling?" muttered Gareth anxiously, squinting slightly
to focus.
Beautiful, "Jake grinned at him beatifically.
"By God, these fellows know how to pack it away."
"Keep pounding them, Forty. You've got them on the run." With his
empty glass he indicated the smiling but sober group of courtiers.
"I'd be grateful if you could refrain from using that name, old chap.
Distasteful, what? Not in the best of style." Gareth slapped his
shoulder with bonhomie and almost missed. A look of concern crossed
his face. "How do I sound?"
"You sound like I feel. We'd better get out of here before they drink
us flat on our backs."
"Oh
God, there he goes again," Gareth muttered with alarm as the Prince
raised his brimming glass and looked about him expectantly. "Wine with
you, my dear Swales," he called as he caught Gareth's eyes.
"Enchanted, I'm sure." Gareth had no choice but to acknowledge and
toss off the contents of his glass before hurrying forward to intercept
the waiter who darted in to recharge the Prince's empty glass.
"Toffee, old sport, I do want you to see this little surprise I
have for you." He grabbed the Prince's drinking arm and prised the
glass from his grip. "Come along, everybody. This way, chaps." Among
the grey-bearded courtiers there was a decided reluctance to leave the
marquee, and Jake had to assist Gareth. Both-of them spreading their
arms and making shooing noises, they finally got them moving down the
track through the forest which emerged a hundred yards farther on into
an open glade the size of a polo field.
A stunned silence fell upon the party as they saw the row of four iron
ladies, gleaming in their new coats of grey, with the heavily jacketed
water-cooled barrels of the Vickers machine guns protruding from the
ports and the rakish turrets emblazoned with the tricolour horizontal
bars of the Ethiopian national colours green, yellow and red.
Like sleep-walkers, they allowed themselves to be led to the row of
chairs under the umbrellas, and without removing their gaze from the
war machines they sank into their seats.
Gareth stood in front of them like a schoolmaster, but swaying
slightly.
"Gentlemen, we have here one of the most versatile armoured vehicles
ever brought into service by any major military power And while he
paused for the Prince to translate, he grinned triumphantly at
Jake.
"Start them up, old son." As the first engine burst into life, the
elderly courtiers came to their feet and applauded like the crowd at a
prize fight.
"Fifteen hundred quid each," whispered Gareth, his eyes sparkling,
"they'll go fifteen hundred!" ij Mikhael had invited them to dine in
his suite aboard the Dunnottar Castle, and over Jake's Protests a
short-order tailor had run up a passable dinner jacket to fit Jake's
tall rangy frame.
"I look like I'm in fancy dress, "he objected.
"You look like a duke," Gareth contradicted. "It gives you a bit of
style. Style, Jake me lad, always remember. Style! If you look like
a tramp, people will treat you as one." Lij Mikhael Sagud wore a
magnificently embroidered cloak in gold and scarlet and black, clasped
at the throat with a dark red ruby the size of a ripe acorn,
<
br /> tieht-fitting velvet breeches and slippers embroidered with twenty-four
carat gold wire. The dinner had been excellent and the Prince seemed
in a mellow mood.
"Now, my dear Swales. The prices for the machine guns and the other
armaments were decided months ago but the armoured cars were never
mentioned. Would you like to suggest a reasonable figure?"
"Your
Excellency, I had in mind a fair figure before I realized it was you
I
was dealing with-" Gareth drew deeply on one of the Prince's Havana
cigars, steeling himself for the wild flying chance he was going to
take. "Now, of course, I am prepared merely to cover my costs and
leave only a modest profit for my partner and myself to share." The
Prince showed his appreciation with a gracious gesture.
"Two thousand pounds each," said Gareth quickly, running the words
together to make it sound less shocking, but still Jake almost choked
on a mouthful of whisky soda.
The Prince nodded thoughtfully. "I see," he said. "That is probably
five times the actual value." Gareth looked shocked. "Your
Excellency-" But the Prince silenced him with a raised hand.
"During the last six months, I have spent a great deal of time
inspecting and pricing various items of military equipment. My dear
Swales, please don't insult us both by protesting." There was a long
silence and the atmosphere in the cabin was taut as guitar strings then
the Prince sighed.
"I could price those weapons but I could not buy. The great powers of
the world have denied me that right the right to defend my country
against the predator." There was an age of weariness in the dark eyes
and smooth brow furrowed with thought. "My country is landlocked, as
you know, gentlemen. We do not have access to the sea.
All imports must come through the territories of French and British
Somaliland or Italian Eritrea. Italy the predator or the French and
the British who have placed us under embargo." Lij Mikhael sipped at
the drink in his hand, and then frowned into the depths of the glass,
as though it were a crystal ball and he could read the future there.
"The great powers are prepared to deliver us to the Fascist tyrant,
with our sword hand empty and trussed behind our back." He sighed
again heavily and then looked up at Gareth. His expression changed.
"Major Swales, you have offered me a collection of worn and obsolete