grinned.
"And yours seems to be Scottish she's wearing a sporran, by God."
"Jake, we've got to make a decision. Do we go or don't we?"
"Action first, decisions later. Let's engage the targets."
"Right," Gareth agreed, realizing the futility of discussion at this
moment. "Driver advance."
"Gunner. Traverse right. Steady. On. Independent rapid fire."
"Shoot!" cried Gareth, and the conversation languished.
It was half an hour before it was resumed, with the two of them in
shirt sleeves, braces dangling and black ties discarded, poring over a
large-scale map of the East African coast that Madame Cecile had
produced.
"There's a thousand miles of unguarded coast line." Gareth traced the
great horn of Africa in the light of the Petromax lamp and then ran his
finger inland. "And this is marked as semi-desert all the way to the
border. We aren't likely to run into a crowd."
"It's a hell of a way to make a living, "said Jake.
"Are we going then?" Gareth looked up.
"You know we are."
"Yes," Gareth laughed. "I know we are.
Fifteen thousand sovereigns say we have to." ij Mikhael received their
decision with a curt nod and then asked, "Have you planned yet how you
will accomplish this task? Perhaps I can be of assistance, I know the
coast well and most of the routes to the interior." He gestured for
one of his advisers to spread a map upon the stateroom table. Jake ran
his finger across it, as he spoke.
"We thought to hire a shallowdraughted vessel here in Dares
Salaam, and make a landing somewhere in this area.
Then to load the cases on the cars, and, carrying our own fuel,
run directly inland to some prearranged rendezvous with your people."
"Yes," agreed the Prince. "The basic idea is right. But I should
avoid British territory. They maintain a very intensive patrol system
to discourage the export of slaves from their territory to the East.
No, keep clear of British Somaliland. The French territory is more
suitable." They plunged into the planning of the expedition, both Jake
and Gareth realizing swiftly how lightly they had discounted the
difficulties that faced them, and how valuable was the Prince's
advice.
"Your landing will be one of the critical stages. There is a tidal
fall of almost twenty feet on this coast and an unfavorable shelving of
the bottom. However, at this point about forty miles north of Jibuti
there is an ancient harbour called Month. It's not marked on the
chart. It was one of the centres of the slave trade before its
abolition, like Zanzibar and Mozambique Island. It was stormed and
sacked by a British force in 1842. The port is without fresh water and
since then it has been deserted. Yet it has a deep-water channel and a
good approach to the shore. This would be a suitable place to land the
vehicles an awkward task without good wharfage and overhead cranes."
Gareth was scribbling notes on a sheet of Union Castle notepaper,
while
Jake leaned attentively over the chart.
"What about patrols in this area?" he asked, and the Prince
shrugged.
"There is a battalion of the Ugion ttrang&e at Jibuti and they send an
occasional camel patrol through this area.
The odds are much against an encounter."
"Those are the kind of odds I like," muttered Gareth.
"Once we are ashore what then?" The Prince touched the map.
"You should then move parallel with the border of Italian Eritrea - a
southwesterly heading until you encounter the swamp area where the
Awash River sinks into the desert. Then turn directly westwards and
you will cross the French Somali border and enter the Danakil country
of Ethiopia. I will arrange to meet your column here-" He turned to
his group of elderly advisers and asked a question. Immediately an
animated and high-volume discussion broke out, at the end of which
the
Prince turned back to them with a smile.
"We seem to be in general agreement that the rendezvous should be at
the Wells of Chaldi here." He showed them the map again. "As you can
see, it is well within Ethiopian territory. This will suit my
Government as well for the cars will be used in the defence of the
Sardi Gorge and the road to Dessie in the event of an Italian offensive
in that direction-" The Prince was interrupted by one of his advisers
and he listened for a few minutes before nodding in agreement and
turning back to the two white men. "It has been suggested that as your
journey from Month to the Wells of Chaldi will be through trackless
desert country some areas of which would be impassable to wheeled
vehicles we should provide you with a guide who knows the area-"
"That's more like it, "Jake growled with relief.
"That's absolutely splendid, Toffee," agreed Gareth.
"Very well. The young man I have chosen is a relative of mine, a
nephew. He speaks English well, having also spent three years at
school in England, and he knows the area through which you will be
travelling, as he has often hunted the lion there as a guest of a chief
in French territory." He spoke to one of the advisers in Amharic, and
the man nodded and left the cabin. "I have sent for him now. His name
is Gregorius Maryam." When he came, Gregorius was a young man probably
in his early twenties. However, he was almost as tall as his uncle
with the warrior's fierce dark eyes and eagle features but his skin was
smooth and hairless as a girl's, the colour of pale honey. He also was
dressed in Western European fashion, and his expression was intense and
intelligent.
His uncle spoke to him quietly in Amharic and he nodded, then turned to
meet Jake and Gareth.
"My uncle has explained what is required of me and I am honoured to be
of service." Gregorius's voice was clear and eager.
"Can you drive a motor car?" Jake asked unexpectedly, and
Gregorius smiled and nodded.
"Indeed, sir. I have my own Morgan sports car in Addis Ababa."
"That's great." Jake returned the smile. "But you'll find an armoured
car a rougher ride."
"Gregorius will pack what he needs for the journey, and join you
immediately. As you know, this ship sails at noon," observed the
Prince, and the young Ethiopian nobleman bowed to his uncle and left
the cabin.
"You now owe me a favour, Major Swales, and I request repayment
immediately." Lij Mikhael turned back to Gareth, whose complacency
evaporated immediately, to be replaced by an expression of mild
alarm.
Gareth had developed a healthy respect for the Prince's ability to
drive a bargain.
"Now listen here, old chap-" he began to protest, but the Prince went
on as though there had been no interruption.
"One of the few weapons that my country has to exploit is the
conscience of the civilized world-"
"I wouldn't give you much change for that," observed Jake.
"No," agreed the Prince sadly. "Not a very effective weapon as yet.
But if we can only inform the world of the injustices and unprovoked
aggression which we suffer then we can force the democratic nations to
come to our support.
We need popular support we must reach the people. If the common
peoples are informed of our lot, they will force their own governments
to take action."
"It's a pretty thought," Gareth agreed.
"Travelling with me now is one of the most highly thought of and
influential journalists in America. Someone who has the ear of
hundreds of thousands of readers across the United States of America,
and the rest of the English-speaking world as well. A person of
liberal conscience, a champion of the oppressed." The Prince paused.
"However,
this person's reputation has preceded us. The Italians realize that
their case might be damaged if the truth is written by a journalist of
this calibre and they have taken measures to prevent this happening.
We have today heard by radio that transit of English, French and
Italian territories will be refused, and' that this ally of ours will
be denied access to Ethiopia. They do not only embargo weapons but
they prevent our friends from giving us succour."
"No," said Gareth. "I've got enough trouble that I must act as a taxi
service for the entire press corps of the world.
I'll be damned if I will-"
"Can he drive a motor car? "Jake interrupted "We are still short of a
driver for the last car."
"If I
know journalists, all he can drive is a whisky bottle," grunted Gareth
gloomily.
"If he can drive we'd save the wages of hiring another driver,"
Jake pointed out, and Gareth's gloom lightened a little.
"That's true if he can drive."
"Let us find out," suggested the
Prince, and spoke quietly to one of his men who slipped out of the
cabin. Gareth took advantage of the pause to take the Prince's arm and
draw him aside from the main group.
"I have drawn up an estimate of the additional expenses we will
encounter the hire of a ship and that sort of thing it stretches the
old finances. I wonder if you could see your way clear to making a
gesture of good faith just a small advance. A few hundred guineas."
"Major Swales, I have made the gesture already by giving my nephew into
your care."
"Not that I don't appreciate that-" Gareth was about to enlarge his
argument, but he was prevented from doing so by the opening of the
cabin door and the entry of the journalist. Gareth Swales straightened
up and touched the knot of his tie. His smile broke across the cabin
like the early morning sun.
Jake Barton had slumped down into one of the chairs beside the chart
table and was about to light a cheroot, the match flaring in the cup of
his hands, but he did not complete the movement. The match burned on
forgotten, as he stared at the newcomer.
"Gentlemen," said the Prince. "I have the honour to introduce
Miss Victoria Camberwell, a distinguished member of the American press
and a good friend of my country." Vicky Camberwell was not yet thirty
years of age, and she was also an unusually attractive and nubile young
woman. She had learned long ago that youth and feminine beauty were
not assets in her chosen career and she tried, with little success, to
disguise both.
She adopted a severe, almost mannish, dress. A military-style shirt
with cloth epaulets and button-down breast pockets that were pushed out
by the large but shapely breasts. Her skirt was tailored in the same
cream linen with more button down pockets on the thighs, and clasped at
the slim waist with a leather belt and heavy snake's buckle.
Her shoes were of the lace-up type that women call "sensible."
On her long lovely legs they looked almost frivolous.
Her hair was drawn severely back to expose a long swan neck. The hair
was fine and silken, sun-bleached, in places, almost white and shaded
over her high broad forehead to the colour of wheat and autumn
leaves.
Gareth recovered first. "Miss Camberwell, of course. I know your
work. Your column is syndicated in the Observer." She looked at him
without expression, remarkably immune to the celebrated Swales smile.
Her eyes, he noticed, were serious and level, sage green in colour, but
shot with speckles of tawny gold.
Jake's match burned his fingers and he swore. She turned to him and he
stood up quickly.
"I didn't expect a woman."
"You don't like women?" Her voice was pitched low and had a husky tone
that raised goose bumps on Jake's forearms.
"Some of my favourite people are women." He saw that she was tall,
reaching almost to his shoulder, and that her body had a poised
athletic carriage. She held her head at a haughty angle which
emphasized the strong independent line of mouth and jaw.
"In fact, I can't think of anyone I like more." And she smiled for the
first time. It had surprising warmth, and Jake saw that her front
teeth were slightly uneven one pushed out of line with the other. He
stared at it fascinated for a moment, then he looked up into the
appraising green eyes.
"Do you drive a car?" he asked seriously, and her smile turned to
surprised laughter.
"I do." said Vicky, laughing. "I also ride a horse and a bicycle,
I can ski, pilot an aeroplane, play snooker and bridge, sing, dance and
play the piano."
"That will do," Jake laughed with her. "That will do just fine." Vicky
turned back to the Prince. "What is all this about,
Lij Mikhael?" she asked. "Just what do these two gentlemen have to do
with our plans?" The towering purple hull of the Dunnottar Castle
swung slowly across the back-drop of palm trees and the high sun-gilded
ranges of cumulus cloud, as she pulled her anchors and came around for
the harbour entrance.
At the rail of the upper deck, the tall figure of the Prince was
flanked by the white-robed figures of his staff, and as the ship
increased speed and kicked up a white sparkling bow wave, he lifted an
arm in a gesture of farewell.
Swiftly, the shape of the liner dwindled away into the limitless
eastern ocean as she made her offing before turning northwards once
more.
The four figures on the wharf lingered after it had disappeared,
staring out at the horizon whose long sweep was uninterrupted except by
the tiny white triangular sails of the fishing fleet coming in off the
banks.
Jake spoke first. "We'll have to find digs for Miss Camberwell. And
at the thought, both he and Gareth made a grab for her single battered
portmanteau and the typewriter in its leather case.
"Spin you for it," suggested Gareth, and an East African shilling
appeared in his hand.
"Tails,"decided Jake.
"Rough luck, old son," Gareth commiserated, and returned the coin to
his pocket. "I'll take care of Miss Camberwell-" he went on, " then
I'll start looking for a ship to take us up coast. In the meantime, I
suggest you have another look at those cars." As he spoke,
he hailed a ricksha from the row which waited at the head of the
wharf.
"Remember, Jake, it was one thing driving them down to the harbour but
an altogether different matter driving them through two hundred miles
of desert. You'd best make sure we don't have to walk home, he
advised, and handed Vicky Camberwell into the ricksha. "Driver,