Secret of the Sands

by Sara Sheridan

  These sombre enquiries naturally come first, after the serving of the coffee. With that out of the way, the conversation continues. Like the later pages of the London Illustrated News, the news that transpires after the headlines is more frivolous. There is, for example, the sheer tabloid scandal of the youngest son of one caliph, ‘A good boy, until now, but he has a fire in his blood and could not cool it when he argued with his father,’ all this explained with flashing of eyes and large hand gestures to signify the scale of the conflict. ‘So the boy took off with only his camel.’ A pause here for effect, for to leave by yourself and take only your camel is a feat of either legendary bravery or extreme foolishness, the judgement of which in this case, is as yet undecided. ‘Even as we speak,’ the old men (they are always old, for some reason) assure the rapt listeners, ‘he is travelling towards one of the seaports ruled by a rival family, where it is rumoured there is money to be made diving for pearls in the waters off Bahrain. Allah be with him.’ Here Allah is always invoked for the Bedu find this fact the most scandalous of all. ‘He will work for someone else,’ they breathe to make the boy’s intention absolutely plain. It transpires the Bedu, despite their poverty, are fiercely independent.

  ‘You cannot trust the pearl merchants,’ they tut, as if the life the boy has set off towards can possibly be harder than a nomadic existence fuelled by camel’s milk and coffee.

  ‘As if the earth would ever yield up her bounty so freely for the benefit of man,’ one old sage sighs at the foolish impossible expectations of youth. ‘Why would Allah be so kind?’

  He is unaware, of course, (as are they all) that beneath his feet lies one of the world’s greatest oil reserves and that in time, every one of his great, great, great grandchildren will be millionaires. The only use the Bedu have for the naft is to harvest it where it rises to the surface and use the sticky fuel for their lamplight. In any case, even in the great metropolises of Western Europe there are, as yet, no machines that can make use of the Peninsula’s natural resources. Steam is the emerging power of the decade and that is fuelled by coal. For the time being, nature is holding her irony in reserve and the Bedu, like the sons of Al Saud, mostly go barefoot and, if not intimately acquainted with cold, they certainly know hunger very well.

  Having listened to the gossip and added a few choice snippets of Muscat extravagance to spice the conversation, the slavers ask for directions.

  ‘North,’ the Bedu always gesture, the sleeves of their white and blue jubbahs swaying with the force of the movement, as if to demonstrate that the emir’s camp is not only northwards, but that it is also still a very long way off. ‘A day off Riyadh.’

  Riyadh is practically the only town in the interior in this region and most directions are navigated by its location. From what Wellsted can gather, it is a small place of only a few thousand souls, living on a precarious supply of water that is only just sufficient to keep its population alive. The soil is good and there are both date palms and fruit orchards. In the desert that is miracle enough.

  During such exchanges, with the men introduced to each other and the pecking order established, Zena sometimes arouses a little interest. Even obscured by her burquah it seems the men are transfixed by her shapely wrists and ankles, both of which are periodically on show as she goes about her chores.

  ‘A prize investment,’ Wellsted hears one say wistfully.

  Several times, visitors try to barter the dark girl dressed in black for a camel or two though none of them formally ask who owns her, they simply seek to swap with whoever they think looks the easiest touch. Ibn Mohammed sees all and his stony gaze silences all negotiations. He does not care, of course, about Zena, but a pair of camels (even of good pedigree) are not worth a pretty Abyssinian female. Ibn Mohammed has never made a poor trade in his life and will not bring dishonour on his caravan by allowing anyone else to do so. As the would-be purchasers shrink, Ibn Mohammed nods to Wellsted as if to say, she is yours, do you want to barter her? He does not. As he has come to know the girl better, the idea horrifies him more and more.

  Zena, for her part, ignores such exchanges and adopts a dignified air as she continues to serve coffee or prepare food while the men talk about her as if she is not there. If anyone were to look closely, they would see her stiffen slightly and her eyes land upon Wellsted at the next opportun ity, to check he is not tempted by the offer. It has happened so many times now that she no longer feels her stomach turn at the prospect, for she is coming to trust that her new, pale master will not barter her, whatever he ultimately intends (this has not yet been settled with any clarity and she does not feel she can ask him).

  Once, when she is serving, a Bedu lays his hand lazily on her foot. Obscured by the crowded sitting mats, no one can see as he strokes her skin slowly, running one hand upwards past the ankle as he proffers his cup with the other. Zena lowers the scalding coffee pot as if to pour but instead she burns him quickly on the skin of his shoulder. The man jumps, but he says nothing, only pulls his hand away. If Wellsted did not watch her so closely, he’d never know.

  Good girl, he thinks, smiling. I knew she had spirit. Her tiny rebellions intrigue him as much as her beauty.

  That night, Wellsted settles Zena to sleep beside him. The camp is settled and the desert is silent, except for the camels grunting. It is the only time of day they can talk without everyone else hearing and they have made a custom of whispering a while before going to sleep.

  ‘It rains almost every day in London,’ he says.

  Zena cannot imagine that is true. His eyes are like sapphires, she decides, sheer, glassy blue. The fascination of watching him talk, move or sleep has not dissipated nor has the thunderclap that accompanies his occasional touch.

  ‘When we leave, I shall tell them about it here,’ he decides. ‘I shall talk at the Royal Society – I know it.’

  That must be a good place to talk, she thinks. Wellsted has mentioned the African Association and the Geographical Society many times. She imagines these places must be something akin to a gathering of men in the souk. Zena enjoys his stories though of course there are questions, which she has not as yet had the nerve to ask. For a start, if it is perpetually raining do they pitch tents in this London simply to keep dry? Are the streets canopied and does everyone wear turbans to keep off the weather? She thinks how lovely it must be for the strange, pale Londoners not to know thirst and, if the stories are true, she can see no downside to the master’s mythical home town. Wellsted has not properly explained to her that the rain is often accompanied by a biting coldness that in living memory has frozen the great river Thames to an icy, polluted standstill or that many of the capital’s citizens are starving to death, ravaged by disease and abandoned by their fellows. The idea of being frozen to death, a real danger in the winter months for many of the poor in Wellsted’s home parish, is beyond her. In Zena’s vocabulary, in either her own dialect or in Arabic, she knows no word that means ‘frozen’. She has never seen snow or ice or, indeed, heard of them. In any case, it is not something that Zena, for all her education, finds possible to envisage. All her life winter has been a more pleasant season than the summer. Thirst is her greatest enemy and she has only ever felt cold when once, as a child, she caught a fever and though her skin burned she felt chilled to the bone.

  Wellsted takes a breath. He has decided to bring up the matter. ‘You burnt our guest today,’ he says.

  ‘I’m sorry, but he . . .’ She is not sure how to explain the liberty the man took. The thought of it still makes her furious, though there is no point in expressing her anger and instead she steels herself for the master’s rebuke. It does not come.

  ‘Well done,’ he says. ‘I don’t know how you bear it – the brute. I am sorry, Zena. I wish I could look after you better.’

  For a moment, she thinks she might cry. It seems a long time ago that Zena had servants and slaves. She misses being cared for and, if she allows herself to think of it, which she does seldom, she feels a dull
pang of love for her grandmother. The thought saddens her despite the fact that the desert is proving intriguing, and this man most of all. She pulls herself up on her elbows. All she can see of him is his face, a pale blue orb, glowing in the pitch.

  ‘You did well,’ he assures her.

  ‘Thank you.’ There is a lump in her throat, but she controls it.

  They have reached a line that neither feels ready to cross.

  ‘Well then,’ he says, turning away, ‘Good night.’

  Zena, for all her travels, is unworldly, and she has no words for the sparks she feels shoot through her. That he would say such a thing – an act of kindness – is astonishing. That he would then turn away and expect nothing for it has unexpected power. She wishes her grandmother had not been so protective, and that she understood better what passes between a man and woman. As it is, she simply enjoys the feelings and wonders if they are what lightning is made of, for everything in the world comes back to the weather. Tears like rain. Smiles like the sun. Hair as dry as sand and fear like the dark ocean.

  ‘London,’ she mouths silently. ‘Marylebone.’ The strange names roll around her tongue as she attempts the pro nunciation. Dreamlike as lullabies they send her to sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ‘I can’t imagine what the hell you were thinking, man!’ Sir Charles blusters at Haines, as he whacks the captain’s report onto his desk. The monsoons are past now and the heat is building up slowly again which is more than can be said for Sir Charles’ temper about which there is nothing leisurely. It is excellent, of course, that Haines has captured a French vessel on the journey back to Bombay, but the cargo! It doesn’t bear thinking about. ‘What in the name of the Almighty are we supposed to do with them all?’ the Head of the Bombay Marine explodes.

  The captain looks sheepish though he harbours a twinge of annoyance at his lordship’s reaction. He should, he is sure, be treated like a damn hero.

  Malcolm strides to the window and looks down on the French ship. It is a fine piece of booty. But still. ‘Did you lose any men?’ he thinks to enquire at last.

  ‘Not one.’ Haines leans forward. The captain can’t help sounding smug. Why the hell shouldn’t he? ‘And you have proof now, sir, that the French are still slaving. That surely is a good thing.’

  Malcolm wipes his face with a handkerchief. His skin is slick with sweat. You’d think he’d acclimatise, but in his view Bombay’s weather is simply getting more unpleasant. If it’s not the bally, baking sun, it’s the humidity of the monsoon driving everyone to distraction. He takes a swig of Madeira from an intricately engraved glass, without offering any to Haines. He’s too taken up with the problem in hand to think of anyone else’s comfort. The captain sits back in the mahogany seat on the other side of the desk and swelters.

  ‘They didn’t see us coming,’ he says with the air of a boy relating a triumph at the school sports day. ‘It was very late and we had no lamps up, you see. We knew immediately what they were up to and I had my midshipmen blast them. The Frenchies didn’t know a thing about it. They hardly stood a chance. The boys were admirable, sir. Ormsby certainly deserves a commendation. It’s a pity the lad is too young to promote. The Frenchies will have to be returned, I suppose? Still, the crew are delighted – there’s nothing like the prospect of prize money to encourage the men.’

  Sir Charles nods. ‘It’s not the bloody Frenchies I’m concerned with, Haines. But I suppose it is well enough done, Captain.’

  Haines beams. At last Sir Charles appears to have realised what he has achieved. ‘You don’t have to worry about the cargo, sir,’ he assures his superior.

  Sir Charles grimaces. It’s the cargo that is the nub of course. There is no protocol for what to do with captured slaves (who, by the letter of the law, aren’t slaves of course, for slaving is illegal and simply does not exist any longer). Shipping the forty youngsters back to Africa is inconvenient in the extreme – a complete waste of resources and, besides, there is no way to know exactly where the blighters actually come from. They cannot be kept in Bombay (or at least not easily, for they are ill-educated bush children with no skills and every one of them darker than an Untouchable. Whoever would employ them? Certainly not the Bombay Marine). Worse, Lady Malcolm is an ardent abolitionist and if Sir Charles does something that she deems to be wrong, he’ll never hear the end of it.

  ‘I don’t suppose,’ Haines suggests, ‘we have any ships leaving for Ceylon?’

  Malcolm pauses. Now that is a very enterprising idea – for years the captain has brought nothing but problems to the table. Now, at last, here he is offering a small solution. Lagging behind London and tardy in its responsibilities, slavery is still legal in British Ceylon, in fact, the plant ations are crying out for extra hands. The slaves, or as Sir Charles prefers to think of them, the cargo, cannot be dispatched, of course, on a navy vessel. The Bombay Marine does not run slaves – its mission and duty is to liberate them. No, no, that would never do. But he is sure he can have one of the men discreetly find a private clipper bound in the right direction. Pottinger might be the man for that job, – the young Englishman is proving tenacious and effective in every way. Lady Malcolm need never know and this will be far easier to keep from her than trying to place the skilless, hapless cargo anywhere in Bombay where they are worse than useless. Yes, Ceylon will do very well.

  ‘Good,’ Sir Charles smiles slowly. He motions towards the bottle of Madeira and Haines nods curtly and pours himself a glug. The men click glasses and the thick, amber liquid raises a syrupy splash on the rim. ‘Yes. That will sort things out. Good. Now, tell me, you are sure Doctor Jessop is dead, are you? Lieutenant Jones as well?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir. I wouldn’t have let Wellsted go on the damn, wild-goose chase, but he is hopeless as an officer, my last choice for any task. Besides, the sultan, for God knows what reason, absolutely insisted on it,’ the captain fumes, unable to contain himself. ‘Lieutenant Wellsted is untrustworthy in the extreme. He has terrible Arabic and poor seamanship skills. The man is fine as an assistant, nothing more.’

  Sir Charles nods, taking this in. The captain’s assessment doesn’t tie up with his own, albeit brief experience of the lieutenant, when he was stationed in Bombay. Nor is it consistent with what he’s been hearing lately from London, where, it seems, Wellsted has written some kind of interesting account of his experiences in the region. Though Haines has first-hand experience of the young officer at close quarters and under pressure, his lordship is inclined to take the view of John Murray more into consideration. From memory, the lad’s demeanour is good and he has passable manners. In any case, Malcolm hopes Wellsted will make it out of the desert alive and that Haines is wrong (not for the first time) and the lieutenant brings Jones and Jessop with him. So many of these young chaps die that it’s difficult to keep up with the ones that are left, and to decide what best to do with them. When there are such heavy losses be they due to malaria or battle, he sometimes feels as if he is watching an investment being flushed down the river. Malcolm has always felt that the service is founded on the expertise of its officers and that those officers are its best public face. He hates to waste them.

  ‘I hope he’s taking decent notes,’ he says. ‘At least then we might get something out of it.’

  Haines shrugs his shoulders as if to say that he couldn’t tell what Wellsted may or may not do and, in any case, he certainly isn’t responsible for it.

  ‘Right,’ says Sir Charles. ‘Lunch, I think. Must be getting back.’

  He can dispatch this news later. London will be interested in the French activity and, all things considered, the captain has done well. Malcolm only wishes that the man didn’t moan all the time. He’s had a problem with every crew he’s ever led. It is most tiresome.

  Haines stands to attention and salutes.

  ‘You must come to dinner,’ His Lordship says as an afterthought, though it is telling that he does not set a date for this. He’s thinking that he’l
l ask the chap on short notice one night when they are down a fellow – sometime when he needs an extra body for bridge or billiards rather than conversation. ‘Billeted all right at the mess are you?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir,’ Haines beams. The captain does not understand the slight and is looking forward to some decent cooking, the opportunity to catch up on his reading and perhaps even to making a start on the book he has been meaning to write for the last five years. Now, of course, he will have to direct himself to some other area of interest than the Socotra trip, but he is sure he will think of something. The marine life of the Red Sea perhaps. Young Ormsby has spotted an interesting fish or two.

  ‘The mess in Bombay is fine for me. It’s good to be back, sir.’ He shakes Sir Charles’ hand warmly, and salutes before he leaves the room.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  As they travel further north, the party enters Wahabi territory. The strangers they now encounter have the long beards of their sect and their dark eyes are serious. Prayer times, until the change of jurisdiction, are a gentle and pleasant affair but now they take on an air of fundamentalism. Instead of family groups and a ramshackle collection of servants that make up the Bedu caravans, the Wahabi travel without women and are accompan ied mostly by uniformly thin and faceless slaves. As a result, the conversations over coffee take on a less familial air and the news is of politics and power struggles. Once more, Wellsted’s Turkish disguise lays him open to sus picion.

  ‘Why do you travel with a Turk?’ one man asks Ibn Mohammed contemptuously. ‘They stole our cities. We took them back.’

  The power struggle in the northern territories is ongoing.

  ‘The effendi is an investor,’ Ibn Mohammed assures the man. ‘He has the blessing of the Sultan of Oman to travel with us.’