The Burning Sky (15 page)

Lying in scrub, with squatting camels and his askaris in the wadi behind him, he watched the Italians through his binoculars as they went about their duties in a desultory fashion. Nothing had changed since his last excursion to this spot, one no enemy would ever have got near to if he had been in command: there would have been an outpost on this spot for certain. It would have been no use pointing
out to Peydon that the men he was watching were not his enemies: anyone not of the same nationality as he, Jocks, Taffs and Paddies excluded, was, in his mind, a foe.

It would be depressing to go back to this Jardine fellow and tell him the situation was unaltered. In his mind he had carried a vision of racing his camel force back into Berbera with exciting news, the kind of act that might get a mention to enhance his hitherto dull career. But it was not to be and so he slid back down the slope and signalled to his men to get themselves back on board their grunting beasts.

‘Mr Jardine.’ The knocking on the door was insistent and it was Mason’s voice, which had him out of his bed and dragging the chair from under the door handle, put there to avoid a repeat visit from the man’s wife, then opening it a crack. ‘I have received a radio message from a Mr Lanchester, saying the ship is in Aden.’

‘How long will our caravan take to get to Zeila?’

‘Dire Dawa is near the Ethiopian border, which is about one hundred and fifty miles of travel, as they need to move from oasis to oasis. That would normally take about ten days, but given what you are bringing, I would say they would push hard to do it in eight as long as they are not stopped and questioned.’

He and Mason had already discussed the risk of interception, which came down to the small chance of them encountering patrolling units of the Somali Camel Corps, who would wonder at a caravan coming out of Ethiopia by a little-used route carrying nothing. The main body of
the corps was based in Hargeisa, which they would skirt round, and there were small units like Peydon’s at certain strategic points, as well as a reserve. But with the Italian build-up, Mason’s opinion was that the force would need to stay concentrated, while to call up reserves would cost money the governor did not have to spare.

Jardine’s next requirement was to get to Aden and aboard the
Tarvita
, and have it sail to the anchorage off Zeila, which would require some subterfuge. Also, he needed a local with knowledge of the coastline, because the only available Admiralty charts would be on board Grace’s patrol boat, not that it would have been wise to ask for them. The men who had transported him before, as well as their dhow, were pressed into service. The crossing also depended on a favourable wind and that was not forthcoming.

They sailed slowly back up the coastline, with Jardine going ashore at Zeila to ensure all the arrangements were in place. He also had to hand over to Xasan a second instalment of the agreed payment so he could actually gather the required men and boats. Then it was a journey in open sea straight across a wide part of the gulf to Aden, beating up tack on tack into a contrary wind, this to avoid the chance of being intercepted by the French, finally turning north close the Yemeni shore.

Two frustrating days passed before they sighted the high mountains that enclosed the huge natural harbour of Aden, the feature that made it so important, and several hours before they could get alongside the
Tarvita
, which was anchored well off Steamer Point, rocking on a swell
which made a nightmare out of climbing the rope ladder dropped over the side.

‘You make a bloody awful pirate, Cal,’ said Lanchester as he finally made the deck. ‘No Blackbeard you, what? Perhaps we should have winched you aboard.’

‘A hello would be nice, Peter. Had any trouble?’

‘Have you ever tried to read Proust, old boy?’ A confused Jardine shook his head. ‘Thought not, or you wouldn’t ask.’

‘Vince, what is he talking about?’

‘Beats me, guv.’

‘Had a customs chappie aboard,’ Lanchester added, ‘but it’s the same old story: they’re not terribly interested if you are on your way to another port, and you have no idea how much confusion can be caused by him trying to understand the captain’s Turkish form of English.’

‘Do we need permission to get under way?’

‘Dues are paid but we should tell the harbour master, it seems.’

‘Well we are not going to. Tonight we will get the captain to darken the ship and head straight out to sea and we need to keep the dhow I came in within sight.’

‘Not me, old boy,’ Lanchester said, ‘this is where I bail out.’

‘Where’s your sense of adventure?’

‘All used up, Cal.’ Lanchester dropped his flippant tone. ‘Listen, old chap, if you do get the goods into the right hands, get out right away. That was the job, to deliver, and once the weapons are handed over, your involvement is finished.’

‘Why do you think it necessary to say that?’

‘I know you, that’s why.’ He turned to Vince. ‘I am relying on you to make sure he does what I have just said.’

‘Thanks a bunch, Mr Lanchester.’

‘How long will it take to get the stuff into Ethiopia, Cal?’

‘A week, maybe ten days after it is landed.’

‘And have you thought about how you are going to get yourself out?’

‘Peter, you worry about you and let me worry about me.’

That made Lanchester frown, but he clearly realised there was little point in saying more. ‘Vince, oblige me by getting the captain to warm up his motor launch while I go and pack.’

‘You’re not going to believe this, Peter, but I am actually going to miss your company.’

‘Get in touch when you get back to London.’

‘Will do.’

Lanchester’s last act was to pass over a large sum of Austrian thalers, the preferred currency in Ethiopia and Somalia, which went into Jardine’s belt. They saw him over the side within half an hour, heading for the shore and the offices of the passenger line that ran ships to and from India, which, as he had said, might give him time to see off Proust.

M
indful of Captain Peydon’s story of his disappearing supply dump, Jardine was disinclined to unload the cargo until the Ethiopians arrived with their camels – he was not prepared to pile up a fortune in weapons on a Somali beach where they could be pilfered, for he suspected when it came to being light-fingered these people would not be far behind the Arabs, and a man like Cabdille Xasan would not stop them; if anything, he would encourage such a thing and seek to profit from the theft. What followed was two days of he and Vince sitting fretting offshore until Mason arrived by dhow to say the caravan was now at the wells of Tashoka.

Their leader was brought into Zeila, where the motor launch was waiting in the harbour to take him out to the
Tarvita
, and the introductions were made. She lay three miles out to sea: the captain had insisted they stay well
offshore until unloading was imminent to give him some sea room in case of bad weather.

The Ethiopian was a tall man and not young, an elegant, grey-haired fellow called
Ras
Kassa Meghoum; the title equated to something like a prince or a duke. He was dressed in an embroidered garment that went to below his knees, his shoulders covered by a short red cloak. His skin was unlined and he moved with that Horn of Africa grace, which also applied to the way he spoke and acted, making it difficult to guess his age.

More importantly, he had the welcome gift of being able to communicate easily: he had learnt some English as a young man and perfected it in the two years he served as an ambassador in London, seeking to gain for his county the one thing they prized above all others, barring independance – access to the sea.

Jardine took a liking to him on first acquaintance; he had an honesty about him that was endearing, almost his first remark being that Britain had let down an old and trusted friend, though he was quick to accept what those present were doing went some way to make amends, as were the private backers who had provided the funds.

‘What I have managed to bring is not even a fraction, sir, of what you need,’ Jardine said. ‘No more than a symbolic contribution to show you that not all of my countrymen share the views of our government.’

‘And it is welcome, Mr Jardine. It is good that we know we still have friends in Britain. I am bound to ask who they are.’

‘And I am duty-bound to refuse to answer, sir,’ Jardine
replied, covering for the fact that he did not really know.

It was with sonorous respect that
Ras
Kassa responded. ‘An offering is all the greater when the giver seeks no praise.’

‘Time to get them ashore, sir.’

The
ras
had brought a hundred camels to Zeila, as well as a hundred warriors who would escort the caravan back to Ethiopian soil, but when Jardine suggested, for the sake of increased speed, they might help unload, he refused for two reasons. First, their dignity as Shewan warriors would be offended, and secondly, because of the trouble it might cause with the local Somalis, given they despised each other – which reminded Jardine of what had been said to him by Geoffrey Amherst about the tribal nature of this part of the world.

Getting the ship as close inshore as possible was paramount: the lesser the distance, the quicker the goods would be landed, and that was tricky – running aground was not an option when the only tug they could send for would have to come from Aden. First they got labourers into the holds to shift the sacks of grain – they formed the final part of the payment to Cabdille Xasan – then they had to be got ashore and safely stored, with the ugly old sod counting in and weighing every bag.

When it came to the weapons and boxes of ammunition Vince took care of the loading end with Peter Lanchester’s very obvious Colt pistol in his belt. Jardine, likewise armed, escorted each consignment to shore and saw it handed over to
Ras
Kassa. Camels were being led to the shoreline in strings of ten at a time to have panniers strapped on
under his supervision, then taken back to the wells to be unloaded, given they would be rested there overnight.

It was slow going and hard work under a hot sun, so when, escorted by Mason, Tyler Alverson and Corrie Littleton arrived and issued cheerful greetings, they got the sharper end of Jardine’s tongue and were told to stay out of the way.

It was near to night when they got to the last crates, and once Vince’s baggage was on board the time came for he and Jardine to say farewell, which included rewarding the captain and spreading a few gratuities to the crew and the cook. The Suez Canal tonnage fees for the return were paid, as well as the cost of refuelling at Port Said.

Such a parting, especially for Vince, was not without a degree of sentiment, for this lot had not only accepted the risk but had behaved with real credit, so cheerful waves and cries of good luck in several languages marked the final parting.

There was trouble with Xasan, not that it came as a surprise, given the look of the man and his previous hard bargaining: Jardine expected he would demand extra payment, citing a list of imagined tasks over and above those previously agreed. He had to be bought off, though not without an argument.

If the ugly old bugger had not been told what the cargo was beforehand, it took no genius, given the presence of Ethiopians, even if he had no way of deciphering the German markings, to work out what the wooden crates contained. The border with French Somalia was not far off, and any talk of this contraband in the bazaars and tea
shops of Djibouti could easily reach Italian ears, not much further up the coast.

The two Americans had bought a pair of donkeys, which were now burdened by a serious amount of baggage, not least Alverson’s typewriter and camera tripod. The American set up his Leica on that so he could take a photograph as a memento of Zeila and the story he would write, once the weapons were safely delivered, without, of course, using any names.

Vince was introduced and, easily identified as an
ex-boxer
, he found an immediate soulmate in the
middle-aged
newspaperman. The two of them were soon locked in what seemed like a competition to name the greatest number of famous pugilists, which lasted all the way to the wells, not, in truth, more than a mile distant, an oasis of verdant green in what was a barren landscape of sand and coastal scrub.

The weapons were in a pile surrounded by the squatting camels and their drovers, while
Ras
Kassa’s warriors formed a circular guard around the encampment, several of them armed with ancient rifles, most with spears, some with bows and arrows.

They were tall willowy men in very white
shammas
, a sort of paletot garment that was wrapped round the body with a part thrown over the shoulder, all lean muscle and supple movement. In a sense, it was Jardine’s first look at what made up the bulk of the Ethiopian army, though it was too soon to make a judgement on their discipline or ability; but if the weaponry was standard, then they were in for a hard fight.

The
ras
had set up a tent and it was to that Mason took them, with Jardine wondering what Kassa would say about the two Americans tagging along, a worry soon laid to rest: the Ethiopian was delighted when he found out Alverson was a reporter. He thought telling the world about Italian intentions a good thing, that it was a badly mistaken notion to keep correspondents from abroad away from the front lines. With Corrie Littleton he was such a perfect gentleman that she was immediately smitten.

Soon food was cooking on spits – they were strong on meat in this part of the world – while one of the drovers was crouched over a large flat stone, that too on burning wood, cooking great roundels of unleavened bread. While they were eating, more tents were put up, one for the Caucasian men, plus another small one for Corrie Littleton, as
Ras
Kassa, already photographed, answered a stream of questions posed by Alverson. Jardine did not interject: the American was asking the questions he would have put himself.

‘We have pulled back our forces fifty miles on the Eritrean front to avoid giving our enemies the excuse of an incident. Also, it is near desert, so crossing it will weaken them, for the road they have built ends at the border and they must drive their vehicles across bad open country. The infantry, too, will suffer before they meet our fighters.’

Alverson next asked what the force levels were, a question, when it came to the Italians, Jardine answered from memory, a feat that much impressed his host. The reverse was not the case: the way
Ras
Kassa boasted of an Ethiopian army of over a million men rang a little false.
Jardine was in no position to argue, he just thought the claim smacked of exaggeration, or perhaps to be kinder, wishful thinking, rather than the truth.

‘What about tanks and aircraft,
Ras
?’ Jardine asked.

For the first time the gentlemanly Ethiopian looked irritated, only a flash across the face but enough to tell Jardine the question was unwelcome; his army had a few First World War tanks and, according to what was known, less than thirty aircraft, against an enemy who numbered those assets in the hundreds.

‘We will beat them even if they do have many of these things, for God is on our side, and I am bound to ask again why the democratic nations do not send us such weapons.’

That, in effect, killed the conversation stone dead, moving it to more general topics and, after a hard day, it was time for everyone to sleep, barring those set to guard the encampment.

At dawn the trio formed to say goodbye to Conrad Mason, a man who had risked his career in aiding this enterprise, as well as turning a blind eye to the wishes of the two Americans, though he waited until the Ethiopians finished their prayers so he could have a quiet talk with
Ras
Kassa.

The last act, just before he mounted the horse that would take him back to Berbera, was a quiet word with Cal Jardine, who, while insisting his own influence was nil, intimated he knew certain people – he was thinking of Peter Lanchester and perhaps even Monty Redfern – who
might be able to put in a word and get the man a better posting.

Mason was not looking at him as he made the offer, seemingly intent on the drovers carrying out their ritual morning task of combing their camels for their moulting hair, a saleable commodity once enough was gathered.

‘No thanks, Jardine. Odd as it seems, I am rather fond of this part of the world, don’t you know?’

He was no longer looking away, indeed the stare that accompanied those words was direct and challenging, as if Mason was daring him to allude to the real reason he was happy to remain in Somaliland; it was an invitation declined, but Jardine was determined to test the colonial officer as well, even if, in his heart, he knew it to be both unwise and potentially a cause of trouble.

‘Give my regards and thanks to your wife, for everything.’

‘Ah yes, Margery,’ Mason said absent-mindedly, as if she were a distant person suddenly recalled. ‘She is not the finest hostess in the world, but she does her best.’

‘On the contrary, I found her very accommodating.’

The last word hung in the air, but Mason was not to be drawn, though it was noticeable his farewell handshake was a little firmer. Jardine was tempted to add that, while Mason was content to stay here, he doubted if that applied to her, but he put such a comment aside too, on the very good grounds that it was really none of his business: you never knew the secrets of a marriage – God only knew how that applied to him – and it was something best to steer clear of.

Mason’s departure combined with the arrival of a troop of women leading camels, which set up one of those vocal matches between their beasts and the Ethiopian animals, who voiced their resentment at the intrusion while the Somalis’ camels responded in kind. It seemed they had come to fetch water, Zeila having none, so every drop had to be carried in on a daily basis and no doubt sold, a thriving and everlasting business. Though the visitors could not understand what was being said, it was apparent the Ethiopian fighting men were making lewd suggestions to these women, offers that were being rudely rejected.

‘I noticed some of your men are armed,’ Jardine said, as, with the water ladies gone, he rejoined
Ras
Kassa. ‘How safe are we travelling back to your homeland?’

‘Less safe than coming, Mr Jardine, given we will have much worth stealing and we will need to go by a different route to that by which caravans normally travel to and from the coast.’

Seeing an explanation was required he carried on speaking.

‘We are, as you know, landlocked, and since our easiest routes to the sea have been blocked by our enemies we must trade through the only major port left to us. With Massawa and Mogadishu in Italian hands that only leaves Djibouti, and not everything goes by rail – the ancient methods are very much still in use. Normally our caravans travel by a more southerly route that would take us through your British capital of Hargeisa, where we enjoy protection from your Camel Corps, but that, for obvious reasons, given what we are carrying, is not open to us.’

‘So the route we will use is?’

‘The one by which we came here, an old slavers’ route along the border with French Somaliland.’

‘Dangerous.’

‘The French are only really interested in Djibouti, and inland is not fertile, it is barren, waterless and hot, which allows the local Somali tribesmen who live by selling salt to be lawless if they choose, but we are numerous, so we should be safe.’

‘Nevertheless, I think it would be an idea to issue some modern weapons here and now and make sure your men know how to use them. Those ancient pieces are not likely to be accurate and there are, in truth, not many of them.’

‘You say that before you have seen these men use them.’

‘I’m sure they are good shots. They will be even more deadly with more modern arms.’

That exchange left a question hanging in the air. Now the guns were off the ship, who was in charge of getting them to where they were needed? It was all very well for Cal Jardine to see his task as delivery to the source of the conflict, but all he had was himself, Vince and his military experience;
Ras
Kassa had a hundred warriors, albeit poorly armed, and was close to his home turf. If the old man insisted on taking charge he would not get an argument: they were, after all, on the same side.