‘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.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Mindful 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.