The Burning Sky

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The choke point for the MS Tarvita was Port Said, where there was a British garrison guarding the entrance to the Suez Canal. That was the means by which Mussolini had reinforced his troops in Eritrea and Somaliland, and was still supplying them, given the colonies the Italians occupied could not easily feed his armies. Howls of protest in the democracies from those opposed to Italy fell on deaf ears; Britain could have choked off the whole Abyssinian operation by one simple stroke: the banning of military equipment from using the canal.

Vince was enjoying himself, using the deck as a mobile running track, finding things on the ship to use as weights, teaching boxing to some of the hands, who were of a dozen nationalities; whatever it was, he was outdoors. Having started off a bright pink in the Black Sea and itching from sunburn, that soon changed; he had been in the Middle East before, and given his Italian bloodline he soon began to turn brown, seeming to get palpably darker by the day.

Peter Lanchester stayed out of the sun as much as he could, spending his time in the shade trying to read Marcel Proust, an endeavour he had promised himself he would undertake as soon as he had time. There was nothing for them to do on the boat — the captain sailed her, he had a woman to cook for them and plenty of supplies, while the crew were pleasant fellows who tried very hard to speak with both him and Vince in fractured English.

Both could only wonder at how Cal Jardine was doing, but given they had no way of knowing, it was not a thing to fret on. Sailing on a sound vessel with reasonable accommodation across a blue Mediterranean Sea in midsummer, it was best to treat it as what it was: a cruise. With the coast of Egypt on the horizon, that came to an end, and the tension increased as the twin minarets of the Grand Fouad Mosque became clear, piercing the sky across from the muggy sky of Port Said.

In the end it was a formality: the canal was under British oversight but it was a commercial enterprise and profit was the primary concern, not the seeking of contraband. From Istanbul Lanchester had organised the payment of the necessary tonnage dues to the Suez Canal Company, and this was a British cargo being moved in a hired foreign bottom, in other words, commonplace and not worth a search. Soon Lanchester was back to A la Recherche du Temps Perdu and Vince was back to his running, boxing and browning, this time with desert sand on either side of the vessel instead of sparkling sea.

* * *

Zeila made Berbera look like a sort of paradise: if it had been a major port once there was scant evidence of it now. A scruffy town of dilapidated buildings, surrounded by a low mud wall, it reeked of no sanitation and loss, the only boats plying any sort of trade a few Arab dhows, while most were tied up in harbour or dragged out of the water altogether on to the beach, some of them now too rotten to take to the water.

The outer roads, a mile and a half offshore, so slight was the fall of the seabed, were empty. There was an official resident here, a bachelor, but no troops or other Europeans. He had gone home on sick leave, hardly surprising given the flyblown quality of the place. Being here on one’s own would be nothing less than soul-destroying.

It had been with some trepidation that Jardine had emerged to take breakfast, after his usual morning exercises and a long and satisfying shower. He found Mason already up and at his desk, which, rather worryingly, left him with the wife and dreading a repeat of what had happened in the hours of darkness. Her attitude was remarkable: there was not the slightest hint of what she had done the night before, no change in either her awkward behaviour or her proneness to inappropriate remarks; the subject was not even alluded to in a look.

That left Jardine wondering if she was a sleepwalker — it was possible, but in the end he decided, with her husband in another bed probably every night and with a different companion, she, with an appetite to be sated, took her pleasure where she could find it, with the caveat that she would avoid congress with a native for fear of scandal.

That word gave him pause — if Whitehall found out what Conrad Mason was doing they would drum him out of the Colonial Service, yet it seemed that many people knew. Peydon, for one, was certainly aware, hence his reaction to gormless Grace, and was that the real reason for his troubled relationship with the local Anglican divine?

Those were thoughts to be put aside. He had come to Zeila by boat, sailing up the coast in a hired dhow, no problem now he knew that Grace had sailed for Aden at first light, so he and his patrol boat were well past the place. Peydon was busy at his barracks organising his trip into the desert; Jardine had passed by to hear much frustrated shouting and the honking of camels.

By his calculation, if everything had gone well, his weapons would be in the Suez Canal only a few days’ sailing away. His task was to organise the unloading, which would have to be into boats, probably those dhows rotting in the harbour.

Mason, having taken over the sick fellow’s duties, had given him the name of a contact, Jamal Cabdille Xasan, a local worthy who had once been prosperous but had suffered the same fate as the place in which he resided. If there was one decent dwelling in the town it was his, but that only became apparent once Jardine was through the doors and into the cool and columned courtyard. Having introduced himself, Xasan sent for a man to interpret their conversation.

Jardine knew ‘Jamal’ meant ‘beautiful’ in Arabic and never was it more inaccurately applied. Xasan had a hooked nose, drooping black eyes, rotting teeth in a sour, turned-down mouth, bad breath and a manner that reeked of a life of double-dealing. Mason was sure he was still involved in the slave trade, now something much interdicted by all the colonial powers. Whatever, he was the fellow who, for a price, could secure the men and boats Jardine needed to get his goods ashore, so for a visitor who knew he would need hours to negotiate with him, he could breathe fire for all he cared.

It was a lengthy and tedious business, but unavoidable, fuelled by endless cups of sweet tea, for there was not a Muslim born who did not see it as a bounden duty to bargain for hours, and Xasan was both a hard man to read and one difficult to beat down. It was late in the afternoon when the terms were finally struck and a down payment made, plus a ‘gift’ to the interpreter.

He could have sailed back to Berbera easily and landed in darkness — it was another clear, starry night — but Jardine decided, discretion being the better part of valour, he would sleep on the boat. There were any number of places to anchor along a near-deserted shore, and the men transporting him were adept fisherfolk who caught a couple of flathead mullet to be cooked over a brazier hung on the vessel’s side. With those same fellows keeping a look out for sharks, he had a dawn dip in the sea as well.

Once back at the bungalow he was informed by Mason that a message had gone off to the Ethiopians at Dire Dawa to speed a camel caravan to Zeila; if it arrived early and had to wait, it was not a problem, given there was a set of wells just inland at Tashoka. Jardine had no notion how it had been sent or to whom, nor was he about to ask.

It was enough that it had been done; it was the kind of thing he did not need to know, and information like that, inadvertently spread, could jeopardise the messenger as well as the means of communication. So far, apart from Alverson, everything had gone swimmingly. He should have known it was too good to continue; when the problem arose it came in trousers and a shirt and was female.

‘You guys think you are smart, but when I see Tyler Alverson making ready to ship out and he is not telling me where he is going, and this is after you two had a cosy midnight talk, I begin to smell something.’

‘I can’t imagine what you think it is, Miss Littleton.’

‘There’s only one place Tyler wants to go and it is not Aden, so when he informs me that’s where he is headed I know he is lying.’

‘I am not privy to where he wants to go or is headed, I have my own concerns.’

‘You know, Jardine, the folks round here are real friendly, and when I saw you come in on a dhow this morning-’

‘You were in Berbera, not here?’

‘Sure I was, and when you disappeared I went and had a little word.’

‘They don’t know anything.’

‘They know more than you think and they took you to a place called Zeila where you met some guy and-’

‘Don’t tell me,’ he interrupted, ‘you paid them to talk?’

‘Naw, I undid a couple of buttons on my shirt. They were so keen to see what a white woman had inside they would have denied Mohammed.’

‘God knows why,’ Jardine replied with an infuriated growl, ‘you’d hardly fill an egg cup.’

His attempt to divert her with an insult failed utterly, she just grinned and wiggled her tight bottom. ‘Some guys like their ladies a little on the slender side. Now, I will tell you what I think: Tyler wants to get into a part of Abyssinia that the locals are keeping him out of and I figure he has engaged you to get him there, which is why you went to Zeila, which I am told is a shithole.’

‘Fishing trip.’

‘My ass.’

‘I’ve met stevedores who swear less than you.’

‘And I have met liars in academia who would leave you for dead. I need to get to Gondar or Aksum and drag my dear mother out of there. I have sent her cables by the dozen saying it is dangerous, but either they don’t get through or she is not listening.’

‘Neither are you. It is bloody dangerous.’

‘You don’t remember, I am a Spartan woman.’

‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘It means I can read and write, it means I can shoot a rifle or a pistol, and if you can find a bow and arrow I will knock an apple off your goddamned head. It means I can ride a horse bareback and go without food, climb mountains and herd cattle.’

‘I read somewhere those Spartan women were happy to be seen prancing around in the nude.’

‘There I draw the line.’

‘You might have just blown your best chance of persuading me.’

‘And I thought you were a decent guy.’

‘When it comes to lust, honey, there’s no such thing.’ The drawling interruption identified the speaker. ‘They also shared their charms with more than one man to beget children. You now have a chance to get me on your side, Corrie.’

‘How much did you hear, Tyler?’

‘Enough.’

‘So, Jardine, what’s it to be?’ Corrie Littleton asked.

‘When did I cease to be a “Mr” and become someone you address like a servant?’

‘I’ll call you “sir” if it will help,’ the girl said.

‘Wrong Jardine — that’s my cousin.’

‘You got a first name?’

‘Yes, my friends call me Cal, you can call me Mister Jardine.’

‘I have to tell you I am desperate. The only way I will get my mother out of there is if I drag her by the hair. I know nothing about armies …’

‘Except classical ones,’ Alverson suggested, with a slight smirk.

The remark got Tyler Alverson a glare, one that softened when she looked back at Jardine.

‘I know where she is, right in the path of Mussolini’s soldiers and on the road to Addis.’

Jardine had read up on places like Gondar and Aksum, both at one time home to Ethiopian royalty going back to antiquity. In Gondar each succeeding king or queen seemed to feel the need to build a place or fortress of their own, so there were multiple buildings of real historical interest, not to mention a source of national pride, and that might be a place the present ruler would be determined to fight for. It was almost as if Corrie Littleton read his mind.

‘Haile Selassie will try to defend Aksum and Gondar for sure, and I have heard enough about those Blackshirt bastards to know they will not respect the old royal palaces. They’ll blow them to hell if they need to and kill anyone who gets in their way. If you had ever met my mother you would know she will try to stop them with her bare hands.’

‘Now I know where you get it from.’

‘I’m desperate, Mr Jardine, really desperate.’

‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me,’ he sighed, ‘and you would not credit the number of people who tell me I’ve got a stone instead of a heart.’

She ran at him then and jumped into his arms, bestowing a smacking kiss on his cheek. Jardine was shocked; Tyler Alverson was laughing.

There is nothing worse than waiting, except waiting with other people who are, like you, keeping a secret. Everything you say, every gesture you make, seems to allude to that which you are trying to hide. Conversations are started and broken off, and all the while there was the worry for Jardine, who had settled in his own mind on the additions to his party, that Lieutenant Grace would return in his boat or Peydon would reappear from the desert, either of which would put the mockers on everything.

Grace was sailing the Red Sea, unaware of the nature of one ship he was passing, flying a red duster. His own white ensign pennant seemed to be of excessive interest to a couple of folk on the deck, one of whom waved, an act that was responded to by a rating, earning the sailor a reprimand and a reminder that he was not on holiday. He had spoken to several of the traders who plied this sea route and used Massawa as their home harbour; there was still no sign of an Italian advance. That rendered him crestfallen: he would really have nothing to report.

Out in the wilderness, on the Abyssinian border with Italian Somaliland, Archie Peydon was in his element. He was a Boy Scout turned soldier, unsuited to the routine of the task he now had, on a detached duty training native troops and camels in a backwater where nothing was ever going to happen, with an occasional visit from his CO, a Royal Marine of all bloody things, to tell him he was all wrong in the way he went about his duties.

The man craved action, prayed for a war, even one of the so-called police actions would do, just to relieve his boredom. Heaven knew that Britannia, with her commitments, had a bit of a conflict going on somewhere all the time.

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.