by Wilbur Smith
Breathe, Penrod told himself. Breathe. He lifted his head and looked at the boy.
“My greetings to my honored friend, your master, and with them my thanks. While I have no particular interest in the fate of Ryder Courtney or his hangers-on, it is always an advantage to have the best information and I thank him for the trouble taken in procuring it.” Penrod spoke in the same courtly style of the little speech the boy had given. “Now get out,” he added.
Adnan needed no more encouragement. He turned and ran, and Penrod heard his sandals slapping on the stone floor of the corridor outside.
Beside him Agatha turned back toward him and yawned. “Who was that?”
“No one,” Penrod replied, throwing the newspaper to the floor. He ran his hand firmly down her side, along the curve of her body. Was it in his own mind or did her body stiffen at his touch? The thought excited him. He pulled her toward him, under him, then leaned down and took one of her large pink nipples into his mouth, sucked it, then as it hardened, bit just a little too sharply. She groaned then yelped. Her hands gripped his upper arms, and he neither knew nor cared if she was pulling him to her or holding him off. He took a handful of her thick blonde hair, still tousled and matted from their love making of the previous night. She closed her eyes and gave a little moan. He thought of the glimmer of pleasure he had seen in her eyes the day Amber had broken off their engagement, how eagerly she had returned to his bed, hung off his arm, thought herself victorious.
He lowered his face so his mustache just brushed the pretty pink lobe of her ear. “Be careful what you wish for, my dear,” he whispered, then thrust into her.
•••
“Mr. Ryder!” The voice cut through the pandemonium on the dockside like a church bell. “Mr. Ryder!”
Ryder turned, keeping his arm around Saffron as the man who had called out strode toward them through the crowd of passengers, officials, porters and the wrecked and wondering survivors of the Iona. He was a very tall Abyssinian, dressed in snow-white robes that fell in soft folds to his knees, and he carried an ebony walking stick with a silver head. Not that he seemed to need it to walk, as his stride was easy and fluid, but it added to his air of authority. The crowd seemed to part miraculously in front of him.
Lord, Amber thought, we are being greeted by Moses himself.
Ryder put out his hand and the Abyssinian gentleman took it in his own. They both bowed low until their shoulders touched.
“Ato Bru!” Ryder said. “Are you well?”
“Thanks be to God, I am well. And you?”
Amber had learned about the proper manner to exchange greetings with a native of Abyssinia. This gentleman undoubtedly knew that Ryder had lost everything during the disaster of the Iona and he could see with his own eyes that the party was exhausted and threadbare, but for the next few minutes, as Ryder and Bru kept their hands clasped, they asked after each other’s families, harvest and business, each time thanking God for his kindness, they reported only health, wealth and well-being. Amber listened carefully, hearing Amharic spoken by a new voice. It had a rhythm and flow to it which reminded her of Arabic, but it had a weight to it too. A fine and subtle language for telling of epic adventures around a campfire, she thought.
Dan leaned forward and whispered to her, “What’s the news, Miss B? Can you understand anything they are saying?”
“I can,” she whispered back. “And no news yet. They are still saying hello.”
“Lordy, lordy!” Dan said and began to stare around him, shielding his eyes as he did from the brilliant sun. The heat was astounding. They had docked on the island that provided Massowah with the best deep-water port between Suakin and Djibouti. A town had grown up to serve and exploit it, connected to the mainland by causeways made of huge slabs of pale yellow stone. In the distance, smudged in a lavender haze, rose the foothills and the long, almost invisible climb to the highlands of Abyssinia and the kingdom of Emperor John. The steep slopes seemed to trap the heat around them. The waters in the port were a startling blue and the sands of the shore bone white. Above the fort, which watched over the port, the Italian flag hung limply, as if exhausted by the heat. The stone minaret of the mosque rose imperiously over the town, which seemed to be mostly made up of wicker huts arranged along the shore.
“What sort of place is this?” Rusty asked quietly.
“Massowah itself is a coral island,” Amber answered, happy to be the guide now. “They have no fresh water here. Rainwater is gathered in cisterns, and the rest is brought over from the mainland.”
“And is it always this hot?”
Amber nodded. “Oh yes, that’s why the houses are all wicker. You can’t breathe in a stone house.” She saw his puzzled look as he glanced at the scattered stone buildings dotted among the wicker. “Those are for stores. In case of fire.”
Ryder and Ato Bru seemed to have finished their conversation.
“We have a house,” Ryder told them. “On Talud.”
“But damn all to put in it,” said Rusty under his breath.
•••
Ato Bru had procured two local servants for them as well as a house. The house was in fact a large courtyard with a stone storehouse at one end and four thatched wicker huts close to the shore, positioned to catch any shade or breeze. Saffron had refused any offers of a donkey to carry them the short distance from the port to their new home, but now she looked exhausted. The men Bru had hired both spoke Arabic and for the first time since she had broken off her engagement, Amber thought she might be of use. She discussed with the senior servant, a very correct middle-aged man who appeared from his dress to be a Mohammedan, where the different members of the party would sleep. He listened to her with his eyes cast down, surprised at first to hear her speak his language so well, then he began to nod at her suggestions and make some of his own. These Amber greeted with enthusiasm, and before they had spent ten minutes together, it was clear they approved of each other mightily.
Amber then persuaded Saffron into the hut she would share with her husband and child. Saffron looked in danger of arguing; her jealously guarded role as bringer of all domestic comfort was being usurped. Amber ordered her to sit on the woven couch that was the only furniture, and by way of settling the matter, handed Saffron baby Leon. Then she sat down beside her.
“Let me help, Saffy! I’ll consult with you about everything, of course I shall, but you are injured and you have to get well as quickly as you can.” Saffron still looked sulky and suspicious. “After all, I might just be able to manage here, where everyone speaks at least some Arabic, but I shan’t be of any use at all for ages once we get to the interior, so you have to be fit for that.”
Saffron appeared mollified. She gave a quick nod, then lifted Leon’s tiny hand to her mouth, blowing on his palm till the baby beamed and giggled.
“Now, Mr. Ibrahim is preparing something for us to eat, but what shall we dress in, Saffy? We have nothing but what we are wearing now. Shall we wear native dress?”
“Certainly not,” Saffron said in a singsong voice, so the baby would carry on gurgling happily. “The Abyssinians have quite strong ideas about Europeans who turn up looking as if they are going to a fancy dress party, don’t they, Leon?” She yawned. “Perhaps Leon and I might just sleep for a little. Ryder said it was hot here, but I don’t think he explained the half of it.”
A shadow moved across the doorway. Amber twisted around and saw Tadesse was waiting for them to notice him. He had a bowl of water at his feet and a cotton bag slung over his shoulder.
“The wound, Miss Amber, in Mrs. Saffron’s shoulder—it should be washed and . . .” He made a sewing gesture with his hands, then patted the cotton bag. “I have brought everything I need.”
Amber looked slightly doubtful. “Of course it must be taken care of, but Saffy, would you not like me to fetch an Italian doctor? We must be able to find one, surely.”
Saffron snorted and handed Leon back to Amber before she carefully withdrew he
r bandaged arm from Ryder’s coat.
“Any Italian doctor here is bound to be a drunk. No, I’m better off with Mr. Tadesse, I think.” The boy looked pleased. “You can leave me with him, Amber.”
Amber moved so Saffron could settle more comfortably on the woven couch and laid the baby down next to her. Leon’s large eyes searched the patterns of light and shade above them, and he reached out his small fists as if trying to catch the heavy air. The heat didn’t seem to be bothering him at all and he blew neat little bubbles. Amber stroked his soft scalp and felt a twist of envy and longing in her loins. Then she sighed. She had no memory of her mother—she had died when the twins were very small—but she did know the reputation her mother had enjoyed for making do and managing in whatever far-flung corner of the empire her husband was sent to. Amber hoped she had some of that spirit of enterprise in her own blood.
Tadesse began to lay out bandages and a pair of small clay pots from his cotton sack, and Amber left the hut to discuss female tailoring with Mr. Ibrahim.
•••
Once Ryder saw that Amber was taking control of the domestic arrangements and looking after Saffron, he said his farewells for the day to Ato Bru, then returned to the dockside to speak to the local shipping agent. He was owed some insurance money by the shipping company, though it would in no way be enough to compensate him for his losses. He signed a vast number of papers and the agent agreed to hold any funds for him until he called for them.
Someone waved from a patch of shade a few yards to his left, and he saw the Indian gentleman who had helped pull him and Tadesse from the sea. He was seated on a shaded bench and drinking tea. He was still wearing the gray suit he had been wearing on the Iona and had somehow managed to keep his dress immaculate despite the shipwreck and rescue. He could have just stepped out of a government office in Cairo.
Ryder went to shake his hand and accepted his offer of a seat in the relative cool of the eaves of the teahouse, and a glass of what tasted like dusty warm water. It was still welcome. The man introduced himself as Sanjay Guptor and told Ryder he had been studying law in England, and was now returning to his own country.
“Though without my books!” He threw up his hands, then winked and tapped his forehead. “I must hope some of the learning has stuck. Now, when I saw you first, Mr. Courtney, you were dashing to the engine room, I think. Tell me, what did you see?”
It was strange, he seemed to have emerged quite cheerfully from the disaster. Ryder was impressed, so described what he had seen and heard in the engine room without reservation.
Mr. Guptor looked thoughtful. “Explosions in the fireboxes? Coal does not usually explode, does it, Mr. Courtney?”
Ryder sipped his tea and stared out across the bustling docks. Some of the injured were still being taken off the rescue ship. “It does not, Mr. Guptor.” A number of men in Italian army uniforms were arranging transport to the military hospital for the most severely hurt, reuniting families, organizing help for the rest. “I once read about a thing called a coal torpedo used during the civil wars in America,” Ryder continued.
Guptor pursed his lips briefly. “I have heard of such things also. One drills a hole in a lump of coal, or many lumps if one has patience and time enough, then fills the holes with gunpowder. A little wax and coal dust and it is a bomb just waiting for its moment. But who would want to destroy the Iona? Do you think some rival shipping line would do such a thing?”
Ryder shook his head. “No.”
They were both silent for a while. “You lost a great deal more than books when the Iona sank, did you not, Mr. Courtney?” Guptor asked.
“I did.”
“Tell me, when you were preparing for this adventure, did you perhaps experience unusual delays, more confusions and difficulties than you might have expected?”
Ryder frowned. “I have been doing business in Africa for many years, Mr. Guptor. I am used to delays and confusions.” Even as he spoke he ran through the events of the last few weeks in his mind. A lost order now and again, another incident when the specifications in his letter had apparently been misread, Rusty’s anger at a botched delivery of chemicals from London. Had he also said something about an Englishman asking rather too many questions in Lamb’s Hotel? In the fury of preparation and the excitement of Leon’s birth, Ryder had dismissed each incident, but now, in the light of the explosion at sea, they seemed to form a pattern.
He cleared his throat. “I am sorry about your books, Mr. Guptor.”
The Indian shrugged. “I can buy more. I shall sit here and wait for the next ship home, and think how to tell my thrilling tales of adventure to my family when I arrive. London was rather dull, nothing but work and fog, so I am glad to have a story worth repeating.” He set his glass down on the bench beside him. “I have spoken to many people from the Iona in the last few hours, Mr. Courtney. I can give you my thoughts, if you would like to hear them?”
“Please do.”
“The only unusual cargo being carried on that ship was yours. The shipments otherwise were the usual luxuries and trade goods that pass along the Red Sea twenty times a month. Thus I conclude if the ship was not sabotaged by a rival shipping line, it must have been your cargo someone wanted to sink to the seabed. Now I consider it, and I think if I were a man who wanted to destroy or delay an unusual cargo, and not be close by when this destruction occurred, then I might use this coal torpedo.” He sipped his tea again and kept his eyes fixed on the activity of the dock. “And I think a person ready to sink a ship to stop you might try again to do so, unless you cease in this endeavor.”
Ryder breathed deeply, letting the hot air fill his lungs. “They might. My thanks for the tea, Mr. Guptor, and your thoughts.”
He shrugged. “You are welcome to them. Perhaps it was just some strange accident and you have nothing to worry about at all, but be careful, Mr. Courtney. If this was an act of sabotage against your enterprise, then you have an enemy who is willing to slaughter many innocent men, women and children just to frustrate you.” Ryder felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. “I would not have such an enemy. I shall pray for you when I return home, Mr. Courtney.”
“My thanks again.”
Mr. Guptor put out his hand and Ryder shook it warmly, and then strode off into the blazing light.
•••
Tadesse had cleaned Saffron’s wound and applied some oil from one of his clay pots. Now he was threading his needle. The scent of the oil was sharp and medicinal. The smell made Saffron think of vivid greens. The ache of the wound had been replaced by a sensation of cold and she felt a pleasant tiredness.
She asked Tadesse, “It’s not my brain going soft, is it?”
“No, Mrs. Saffron, I think your head will heal nicely if you rest for a few days. The oil numbs the pain and makes us a little quiet and dreaming.” He sucked the needle, then rubbed more of the oil over it and along the thread until it glistened. “But I must draw the wound together now, and it will still sting as I do so. Are you prepared?”
She nodded and stretched out her arm.
“You can turn away, if you wish.”
“I want to be sure you sew straight.”
He laughed quietly. “You will have a scar, I think.”
“I don’t mind. Scars show we’ve lived. Now do get on with it.”
She couldn’t help hissing with the pain as the needle went through her flesh, but she did not flinch or turn away. Tadesse tied and cut the first stitch and began the next.
“Straight enough, Mrs. Saffron?” he said, without taking his eyes from his work.
“Straight enough, my friend.”
Saffron wished she had her sketchbook to hand. The way the fierce light made its way through the wicker walls, highlighting the shadows of the boy’s face, would have made a beautiful study. She wondered if she’d be able to get that shading in oils. Almost all of her supplies were at the bottom of the Red Sea now, all the beautiful colors she had ordered from London�
�Cadmium Yellow and Rose Madder, Prussian Blue and Viridian. She had a vision of the elegant tubes floating down through the water. Tadesse had already finished another stitch. The pain became distant, just another color in the day.
“What is your story, Tadesse? How did you end up on the ship?”
He snipped the thread with a pair of small steel scissors. “Perhaps I am a lost prince, Mrs. Saffron.”
“I am sure you are a prince, but you don’t look lost.”
He shifted the position of her arm slightly so the light fell across the part of the wound he was now drawing closed. “I was born by Lake Tana. My father was from those parts, my mother from Tigray. It was my father and aunties who taught me medicine. Then, when I was ten, some Englishmen came to the lake. I liked them. But they brought a disease with them. Smallpox. My mother, father, aunties were all killed by it.”
“I am sorry, Tadesse.”
He shrugged and smoothed a little more oil on the needle and thread before beginning his final stitch. “One of the Englishmen, Jones, felt sorry for me. I went as his servant as far as Suez, but then he lost his money in a card game and he had to sell his watch to pay for his passage to London. He got me work on the steamer so I might find my way home. Very good, Mrs. Saffron, it is done.”
Saffron looked at the row of neat stitches running down her arm. The edges of the wound were pink and clean. She could almost feel the flesh knitting together again.
“Now, I shall bandage it again, so the little baby does not pull them out.” Leon gurgled next to them as if he had heard and they both smiled. Tadesse picked up the prepared strips of clean cloth.
“Where did you gather all these supplies, Tadesse?”
He shrugged his thin shoulders. “I met a man of my people in the market. He has heard the name Ryder Courtney and gifted me these things to treat you.”