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.
Ras Kassa waved at the pile of crates. ‘Mr Jardine, they are yours to do with as you wish.’
Appreciating the courtesy, there was only one reply. ‘Not so, Ras. My task may be to get them to Addis Ababa but even here they are the property of your emperor, and since you represent him …’