Voyage of Slaves

3

ON THE SHORES OF SEBKHAT TAWORGA, SOUTHEAST OF THE TOWN OF MISURATA.

HERR OTTO KASSEL ROSE DRIPPING from the sea. Wiggling the water from one ear with a fingertip, the huge man strode ashore. Whenever he got the opportunity, Otto was fond of an early morning dip. One hour’s swim in the dawn Mediterranean waters was a real pleasure to the giant German strongman. Since his midteens, Otto had been a professional exhibitor of his prodigious strength; it was an occupation which had taken him to many lands. Brushing beads of salt water from his huge shaven head, he commenced some daily exercises. Flexing massive muscles, he bent, jerked, stretched and arched. Otto took great care of his magnificent physique, he was scrupulous about hygiene, and rigorous in training.

Donning a robe, he sat on a duneside. From his pocket, he brought forth a polished silver snuff box. In it was a small comb and scissors, plus some special wax pomade for his moustache. Using the inner side of the lid as a mirror he combed his upper lip growth meticulously, snipping off any stray hairs. He anointed the moustache with pomade, twirling both ends until they stood out like two miniature spikes. The big fellow smiled with satisfaction. Now he was ready to face the day.

Then he saw the dog.

It was a good-sized beast, lying flat on one side in the sand, apparently dead. Otto studied it from where he sat, some ten yards away. The strongman was kind and compassionate to animals. Poor creature, what had brought it to this? It was rake thin, and heavily coated from head to tail in sand, which had dried to a crust under the searing heat. A few gulls landed and began circling the pitiful carcass. One hopped boldly forward and pecked at the dog’s flank. To Otto’s amazement, the dog tried to raise its head and issued a faint growl. The strongman leaped up and ran forward waving his arms, chasing the predatory birds away.

Crouching beside the dog, Otto reached out a ham-like hand, patting it gently. Thick matted sand fell away; at first he had supposed the dog was light brown, but beneath the sand the dog’s coat was black, it was a black Labrador. Otto had once owned a large black dog, when he was a boy back in Germany. He had called it Bundi. He used the name now as he stroked the dog.

“Hello, Bundi, where did you come from, boy?”

The dog whined feebly, lids flickering as it tried to open its eyes. Otto licked the corner of his robe, screwing it into a twirl. With this he probed gently, rooting away the coagulated debris of sand and moisture from the dog’s eyelids. He spoke reassuringly as he worked. “Trust me now, Bundi, I’ll get you back to the cart and fix you up properly. I’m not going to hurt you, boy, be still while I carry you.”

The Travelling Rizzoli Troupe were preparing breakfast in the shade of their cart. It was garishly painted in bright green, blue, red and gold, with a canvas awning depicting bulbous-limbed people performing impossible feats of bodily contortions. They numbered nine in all, including Otto; a python called Mwaga; and Poppea, the old, white mare who pulled the cart.

Signore Augusto Rizzoli was the owner and leader of the troupe. A small, tubby travelling showman, he possessed numerous talents, which included a shrewd business brain and a resounding tenor voice. His wife, Rosa, known to all simply as Mamma, was general handywoman, seamstress, cook and confidante, ever ready to help or assist the others. Signore Rizzoli’s two brothers were the clowns. Their names were Beppino and Vincenzo, but they also answered to their stage names, Buffo and Mummo. They were two happy-go-lucky fellows, pleased to let their elder brother deal with everyday troupe business, whilst they laughed and joked their way through life.

The final two, La Lindi and Serafina, were native Africans from Mozambique. Both had totally unpronounceable names, so Mamma Rizzoli had chosen new titles for them. Signore Rizzoli had spotted them entertaining in the bazaar of a small Tanganyikan place called Lindi. Recognizing talent, he had hired them on the spot. They agreed readily. Life for two black ladies playing the markets and bazaars of the African coast, with nobody to protect them against slavers, was risky. Better to travel in company, with a safe place in the wagon, and no worries about providing food for themselves. Mamma Rizzoli christened the older lady La Lindi, after the place where they had met. The younger one, who was in her midteens, was a strikingly beautiful girl, tall, slim and gracious, with large, almond-shaped eyes which radiated tranquility. Mamma called her Serafina because she liked the name so much.

Serafina and La Lindi were not related. They had fallen together by chance whilst crossing the border into Tanganyika, fleeing Mozambique slavers. La Lindi was a dancer who could fascinate onlookers as she danced with Mwaga, her python. Serafina sang and played a variety of musical instruments for the dances.

All in all, the Travelling Rizzoli Troupe was a motley collection, four Italians, a German and two Africans.

Augusto Rizzoli was busy brewing some aromatic Turkish coffee for breakfast. Mamma was tending to her bread-making, and Mummo, who enjoyed cooking, was stirring a concoction of peppers, tomatoes and eggs. Buffo was readying Poppea’s nosebag when he spied the strongman arriving, carrying the limp form of the dog. He called out jokingly, “Otto, you caught a dogfish, is it still alive?”

The troupe gathered around as Otto laid the black Labrador on the wagon step. La Lindi inspected it, she checked the sand-coated tongue, slobbering loosely out of the creature’s mouth, then lifted one of the eyelids to view the dully glazed eyeball. Holding her face close to its muzzle, she sniffed, then shook her head.

“He will be dead before the setting of the sun, I think.”

Otto protested. “But you could be wrong, Fräulein.³ Bundi is alive still, and where there is life there is hope!”

Mamma patted the big man’s shoulder sympathetically. “You must trust La Lindi’s judgement, Herr Kassel, she knows about animals.”

Serafina stroked the dog’s head tenderly, obviously saddened by La Lindi’s pronouncement. “He’s a good dog, I feel it, we can’t let him die. Signore Rizzoli, let me and Otto care for him, we’ll get him better. Please?”

Augusto Rizzoli had the final word in any troupe decisions. However, he could not resist Serafina’s plea. “Do what you can for the poor beast, bella ragazza.⁴ Even if he does die, he will do it in comfort among friends. He looks as if he has suffered greatly.”

Otto dipped a ladle into the water cask which hung on the wagon’s side.

“You get some fresh water into him, little one, I’ll clean him up. Mummo, beat one of those eggs up, but don’t cook it. Maybe Bundi will like some.”

Ned (for it was he) vaguely saw a pretty black girl pouring water into his mouth. It was the coolest, sweetest water he had ever tasted. He gulped at it with what little strength he could muster, licking at the girl’s hand as he did. Without warning he heaved, vomiting an alarming amount of water back. The strongman nodded approvingly.

“Good boy, Bundi, get all that seawater out of your gut! Leave him a moment, Serafina, let him recover a little before you give him more. What do you think now, Fräulein Lindi?”

The enigmatic dancer raised her eyebrows. “I think your dog is a stubborn beast, he hangs onto life with a strong grip. You could be right, Otto, there is hope. But he will need much care.”

Ned did not hear this last remark. He had lapsed into a semiconscious sleep, his mind was blank. He could remember nothing, not his former life, or Ben, nothing. However, a spectre was haunting his troubled dreams, coming at him through a sudden nightmare of icy, storm-tossed seas. It was Vanderdecken, beckoning from the storm-battered deck of the Flying Dutchman. Triumph shone from the captain’s ghastly blood-rimmed eyes. He roared at Ned above the shrieking gale. “Now you are mine, dog, come to me. Where is your master?”

Serafina was washing and combing the matted dirt from the dog’s coat. She patted him reassuringly as he shivered and moaned. “Poor Bundi, are you having bad dreams? There now, be calm, you are with friends. Hush now, hush!”

Gradually the shivers and moans subsided as Ned slid back into the deep well of dreamless sleep.