CHAPTER V

SCENESCENE OUTSIDE ZEILA COURT-HOUSE.

SCENE OUTSIDE ZEILA COURT-HOUSE.

The last case of any importance is one in which a number of lads are charged with gambling. There has been a police raid, and the usual paraphernalia of such cases is produced. A dirty old pack of cards, some small silver coins, and a number of coppers. Police Constable No. 13—unlucky number, he has a beautiful black eye—deposes that he caught the prisoners red-handed, playing cards in one of the numerous coffee shops in the town; seized the cards and the coins, and arrested the men.

"And did they come quietly, Constable?"

"Yes, Sahib."

"Then whatever on earth has happened to your eye?"

No answer, and I do not press the question. As a matter of fact P.C. No. 13 set out last night to administer a little corporal punishment to his wife. His wife chastised him instead.

The prisoners plead guilty to playing cards, but state they were only playing for cups of coffee. That is an old yarn, and does not go down. Fined onerupee each, and cautioned that they will not get off lightly next time.

And now comes Mr Gandhi, the public superintendent. His coolies have actually gone on strike. For what? More pay? No. for what? More water. Well, Mr Gandhi can settle this strike by giving them as much as they want, and hang the expense.

The court work is over; I go to count pick shovels at the prison, and say "salaam" to the mean unhappy wretches I have sentenced to of durance vile.

Indelicate expressions—The narrative of No. 1—Interruptions—The narrative of No. 2—Buralli speaks the epilogue.

This is a truthful record of a scene that occurred in my court to-day. If some of the expressions used are rather indelicate I can only excuse myself for repeating them on the plea that they are not to be compared with some other expressions used, but not repeated. Africans call spades "spades," and talk without embarrassment about subjects that are taboo in our drawing-rooms. This morning, without any warning, two Somal ladies were ushered into my presence at court. Ushered, did I say? Rather, two ladies burst into the court dragging at their tails a squad of perspiring policemen, who showed signs of having been engaged in an unsuccessful argument with the women.

The imperturbable Somal sub-inspector of police guided one woman into the witness-box, the other into the prisoners' stand.

"Well, madam," said I to the one in the witness-box, "what is your trouble?"

Both women began to shout. Cries of "Silence" interrupted them, and Buralli, the police inspector, was able to make a little speech.

"Sahib, these two women have been fighting like devils. At first I thought the town was afire. We have put this one in the witness-box to keep them apart. As sure as they are within reach of one another they fight like tigers, and attack anyone attempting to drag them apart. They are both prisoners."

"Very good. This," pointing my finger at the fat woman in the prisoners' stand, "is accused No. 1. This," at the long gaunt woman in the witness-box, "is accused No. 2. No. 2 will explain what she means by such outrageous conduct."

Meanwhile No. 1 lets down her petticoat, which I observe is girded round her loins for other than peaceful, housekeeping purposes. No. 1, with a snort and a toss of her head, allowed the petticoat to fall, and made other adjustments to her dress and person which enabled me to have a closer look at her without blushing. No. 2 proceeded with her story.

"My second last husband died some two years ago, since when, until a few months ago, I have been a lone respectable widow. Never a word of scandal has been breathed against me until to-day. Four months it is since Ali Hosh began to take aninterest in me, and asked my hand in marriage. I refused at first to have anything to do with him, but he pestered me so, that, for the sake of peace, I married him. He had already one wife, the woman present in court, who resented the marriage, and laid herself out to make my life unbearable. At the end of one month I was tired of the perpetual bickering, and begged Ali to divorce me. Though loath to part with me he saw it was the best thing to do, and agreed. Three times he renounced me before witnesses, and I am now a single woman again. This morning his wife came to my house and made use of the most shocking language. She called me a —— and many other bad names. I begged her to go away, but on her making use of the bad expression I have told you of, for a second time, in connection with myself—Me! Me! Me! a most respectable woman—I lost my temper and sailed into her in fine style. I made use of no bad language whatever, and I am at a loss to understand why I have been arrested. I wish you to realise I am the complainant in this case. I demand that this woman be sent to chowky.[2]She is a bad woman, ripe for murder, and my life is unsafe whilst she is at large. What's the use of the British government if it can be flouted by one fat old woman like this!"

Further remarks of accused No. 2 were interruptedby a perfect howl of vituperation from No. 1. Feminine flesh and blood could not stand such a remark as the last to pass unchallenged. I quite understood. There's a time and place for everything. If I wanted to call a woman "a fat old thing" I'd wait until she was sailing for Australia and break it to her gently when the gangway was up and she was too far from the pier—on which I'd be standing—to jump ashore. Women are really braver than men.

Shrieks and hysterical screams. "Ha, you baggage!" "Strumpet yourself; everyone knows you are no better than you ought to be." Interspersed with yells from the policemen to the women to hold their tongues. The row continued: I became quite excited myself, and joined in the mêlée by beating on the table with a heavy ruler and shouting out: "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" Buralli closed this incident by threatening to duck both women in the sea. I ordered No. 2 to proceed. She repeated herself again and again. Mahomed the interpreter gave it as his opinion that she was only wasting my time. I replied that he was much too fond of expressing his opinion, and asked him to keep it to himself. The woman, I said, was to talk until she was tired out, if I sat there all night to listen to her. At it she went again until she had to admit there was nothing more to be said. Meanwhile the otherwoman was on the verge of a fit. Whenever she opened her mouth three policemen shouted into it. A most effective way of quietening her, but trying to my nerves. Remember the temperature was ninety-eight degrees in the shade.

"Accused No. 2! Have you really finished?"

"Yes, Sahib!"

"Bring a Koran and make her swear she has nothing more to say; and, madam, before you pass your oath, let me assure you that you cannot, like Hastings Sahib, stand astounded at your own moderation. For blasphemous, immodest, immoderate language I have, in the course of a vast experience, only once met your equal, and by a strange coincidence she happens to be accused No. 1. I would caution you that if, in the depths of your bowels, there are any bad words or scurrilous statements left unsaid they had better remain there. One more word from you and I will send you to jail for a month without the option of a fine. Now swear and be careful afterwards to keep your mouth shut!"

She swore.

"Constables! Cast off accused No. 1—let her talk!"

And she did talk. It was like a mad woman praying.

"I have been married to Ali for nineteen years. Some few months ago he became infatuated withthis objectionable person, and married her. I called my neighbours and pointed out that Ali was not earning sufficient money to support me and his two children, let alone a new wife, a strumpet who was stealing my husband, and the bread from my children's mouths."

"Madam," I interrupted, seeing that No. 2 was on the verge of hysterics, "try and tell your sad story without calling the other lady names."

"She is everything I have called her and worse, Sahib. Wait until I tell you her private history!"

"No! no! Please get on with your story."

"She is a——"

"Will you be quiet?"

"And every day before she married Ali, and every day since he divorced her——"

"Buralli, for God's sake make this awful woman behave."

Buralli used a few expressions to the lady that I pretended not to understand, but which secretly gave me the greatest inward satisfaction. The woman was actually shocked into getting on with her story. She proceeded:

"Well, the neighbours talked Ali round. He did the right thing, and divorced her. Yesterday I heard he had sent to her for a praying mat. 'What does he want with a praying mat from her,' I said to myself; 'I'll go and see about it.' He works ina little hut beyond the market, and there, sure enough, I found the mat. I took it away and cut it into strips. I carried the strips to this woman's house and I said, 'There's your mat.' I threw the pieces in her face like this—I wish they had been stones. I said to her: 'Take your mat; when my husband wants a praying mat I'll make him a better one than you can. When he wants good food I'll prepare it for him better than you can. When he wants——'"

"Buralli! Stop her!"

"No, Sahib, who can stop a Somal woman? Drown her. Murder her—yes, but as long as she has breath in her body she'll talk."

"Well," I said, "I am going to finish this case. Let her proceed."

On and on she raved. "This is a government office, and here I hope to get justice from an English Sahib, etc., etc." At last she was talked out. I seized my opportunity.

"Do these women live in the same quarter of the town?"

"No, Sahib, in different quarters."

"Well the order of this court is that they be each escorted forth from this building by three police constables to their separate homes. The part of the town in which accused No. 1 lives is out of bounds to No. 2, and she enters therein at peril of beingarrested. Vice versâ, the quarter where No. 2 lives is out of bounds to No. 1, and if found there she will be arrested. Take them out!"

I watched No. 2 being led down the road that runs straight away from my office door. No. 1 was escorted across the square to the left. At intervals the women paused to wave their arms and shout abuse at one another, but were ever hustled on by the policemen. At last the stout lady sat on the road and defied her escort to shift her. They did not try, and there she sat until her rival was out of sight, when she arose and went quietly to her home.

"When a Mussulman has been married to one woman for years," says Buralli, "and then marries a second wife he has spoiled the first one."

"In this particular instance, which calls forth your words of wisdom, Buralli, it appears to me that it was the second wife alone who was in danger of being spoiled—by the old wife," I replied.

"Oh, she is all right," said Buralli, "she'll marry again!"

"A bachelor this time, I think, Buralli."

"Sahib," said Mahomed the interpreter, "he was a wise king who passed the law that a European gentleman should have only one wife."

"Perhaps it was a queen, Mahomed!"

"Sure, it must have been a queen!" said the wise Mahomed.

Tribal location—European Protectorates—Characteristics—The old Akil—A tale of treachery.

From Egypt to the Juba River the whole north-east African coast is held by three powers, Italy, France, and England. The Italian colony, now known as Eritrea, grew from a small settlement at, or near, Assab, where the Italian flag was hoisted for the first time in 1879. Excepting that most of the coast-line in this colony is populated—in places very sparsely—by the Danakil, a tribe closely resembling the Somal tribe in temperament, customs, and religion, it has no concern with Somaliland. The Danakil territory extends as far south as the Issa Somal's northern grazing grounds, near Tajura in French territory. From Tajura to almost the mouth of the Tana River, in British East Africa, the coast lands, and much of the interior, are held by the Somals.

In 1888 the Italians turned their attention to Southern Somaliland, and by 1894 had established a protectorate over the whole coast between Biaso,on the Gulf of Aden, and the mouth of the Juba River. The Somal tribes south of the mouth of the Juba, and west of that river, ultimately came under the jurisdiction of the British East African government; so that, nowadays, we have, from north to south, Eritrea, French Somaliland, British Somaliland, Italian Somaliland, and that part of East Africa inhabited by Somals and known as Jubaland.

Somaliland, French, English, and Italian, is peopled by a race possessed of such peculiar and contradictory temperamental characteristics, that, were the accident or influence of environment entirely ignored, and this people judged by purely European standards, it might well be classed as a race of maniacs. To bear out the truth of this statement is Burton's description of the Somals who live in the vicinity of Zeila. "In character the Esa are childish and docile, cunning and deficient in judgment, kind and fickle, good-humoured and irascible, warm-hearted and infamous for cruelty and treachery." This description, which cannot be contradicted, might well be applied to the whole Somal race, and it describes a people whose psychology it is impossible for a European mind, with no experience of them, to understand and explain. To the average European, and nearly all other African tribes, the name of Somal is anathema.

It follows that Somals are a people who require very careful handling, and, fortunately for them, the three powers with whom they are most directly concerned have followed the more humane method, when dealing with these bravedifficilepeople, of interfering as little as possible with native custom—even where this custom is sometimes contrary to European ideas of right—so long as it affects only themselves, in preference to an endeavour to enforce European standards by the employment of force.

As Englishmen, Frenchmen, and Italians alike have lost their lives by acts of treachery that can only be described as the acts of madmen, the lesson learned has been that, no matter how safe things may appear on the surface, it is never wise to relax ordinary precaution. The Somal has no sense of reverence, if I may use the expression, and considers himself as good a man, and, like all madmen, as sane a man as anyone else in the world. One may expect no supine servility from him, and the man who looks for it will only find trouble instead. In dealing with Eastern natives the European is not unlikely to become somewhat "spoiled," and, unless he has a very level head, may quite easily lose a due sense of proportion as to his relative importance with other peoples in this world.

To-day I received this note from an Indian clerk:

"Sir,—I respectfully request your merciful honour to arrange for myself and Mr —— two riding camels to go to the garden this Saturday at three p.m. For which act of kindness we shall be highly obliged."

Of course I let him have the camels, and was thanked so profusely that I began to feel I was a rather wonderful fellow, and had done something really magnanimous. But my conceit was about to receive a rude shock.

Shortly after the camel incident a dirty old Akil walked into my office, and, with an abrupt "salaam," held out a grimy paw for me to shake. I shook.

The old gentleman had come in from the bush to draw his salary, which I was prepared to pay him as condescendingly as I had lent camels to the clerk. It is hard to explain what a pleasant sensation of exaltation even the most modest of men may feel when seated on a dais behind a desk, with an inspector of police—who bows every time he is looked at—on his left; an interpreter on his right, who would lick his boots for a rise of pay; a clerk who stands up, and says "Sir" as if he meant it, every time he is spoken to; and a real live savage in front of him who has come to ask for pay, and who is an inferior to whom one can grant favours.

I asked after the Akil's health and his cattle,endeavouring to convey I was not above taking an interest in his affairs. Had there been good rain, and was the grazing good out his way? Was the political situation quite satisfactory? He answered all my questions with civility, and after some little time turned to the interpreter and said: "I've been nearly thirty years an Akil and this is the first time I have been asked immediately on arrival in Zeila for the news of the district. This officer is unlike the other sahibs."

I took this remark as a great compliment to my keenness. For there have been some very clever sahibs stationed here during the past thirty years, all of whom the old boy before me must have met and had dealings with. I was so flattered that I fairly oozed condescension.

"Ask him why I am different to the other sahibs," I said.

"You are different to the other sahibs," explained the old man, "because they knew their work and you don't know yours. They knew that when a man comes from the interior he is tired and thirsty. They gave me my pay immediately I arrived. They did not keep me standing about answering questions, but said: 'Here is a rupee bakshish, go and drink tea with it, and when you are rested and refreshed come back and tell us all the news.'"

That sort of thing may be very trying, but itdoeskeep one from over-developing a sense of self-importance.

The old gentleman was paid his salary, which he counted carefully as if he were making sure we had not cheated him nor given him a bad rupee, then, with an independent "salaam," and a salute that might quite easily have been an attempt to brush a fly off his ear, he went off to drink tea—at his own expense! My one miserable score.

That there have been some exciting incidents in dealing with such people can easily be imagined, and the following description of one such, that happened a few years ago to a European, is illustrative of their treachery. He had left his camp and escort, and with his orderly had gone to shoot birds. Having fired away all his cartridges he was returning to camp, when he met, amongst a party of Somals, a man who had some petty personal grievance against him. I shall let him tell the story in his own words, and, if I may hazard an opinion, he was a lucky man to live to write the lines I quote.

"In a small clearing, perhaps about a hundred yards away, we came upon a party of some fifteen armed Somals who stood directly in our path. For a moment I hesitated. I was completely unarmed, and it struck me that these might be hostile. I questioned my orderly, and he drew my attention to the fact that an Akil, whom I knew, led theparty. Recognising the Akil I felt reassured, exchanged with him the salutation of 'peace,' and stepped forward to shake hands.

"As I did this, and addressed an inquiry in the vernacular with regard to his health, a man who was standing behind him drove at me with his spear. The point took me on the right side of the ribs, inflicting a bad but not serious wound, while the force of the blow sent me to my knees. My assailant still pressed me backwards, and I instinctively grasped the blade with both hands. My orderly caught the shaft. The weapon was instantly withdrawn, lacerating both my hands severely and slightly grazing that of the orderly. The latter then passed me my empty shot gun and drew his bilawa.[3]

"All this was the work of a moment. Of what happened next I have but a hazy recollection. I lost sight of my orderly, who was doubtless being attended to. I saw the Akil's face, and it was that of a man who knew what was afoot. But I was, then, too busy parrying spear-thrusts to think of anything else. Finally I got away into the bush."

This incident is one of many that have occurred to Europeans, French, English, and Italians, aye, and even Greeks and Russians, in Greater Somaliland. But few such incidents have ended like this one, and there have, nearly always, been nosurvivors to tell tales. Such are generally affairs of a few seconds—seconds in which death is dealt out with lightning speed by madmen who are incapable of counting the cost and consequences of their deed.

As body servant—Safari troubles—Mahomed of the lion's heart—Mahomed to the rescue—The duel—Mahomed on field service—The parting.

It is more than twelve years ago now since I first met him at Adas-Ababa. I wanted a servant, a strong fellow. Mahomed Fara, Somal, was nineteen years of age, tall and slender; looked delicate, and bore traces of having suffered from smallpox; not enough to disfigure him, for he was a nice looking boy. He wanted to get out of Abyssinia; I do not know how he came there. He also wanted to see the world. I was going on to the Bahr-En-Nil, which was new country to him, and whether that was the chief attraction, or whether, as I like to believe, he had acquired a sneaking regard for my person, only Mahomed knows, but he asked for the vacant post. Physically he was far from the type of man I required, but he had good manners and impressed me. Looking back on the years that have passed I know now why Mahomed impressed me sufficiently to engage him for a trip I feared hemight not be up to. It was because he was a gentleman at heart; there was more in him than the good manners I liked so well.

My impression that he was delicate soon became a certainty, but the boy had the heart of a lion, and whatever he turned his hand to was done with the best that was in him. We had a rough trip. Crossing the low Abyssinian territory that borders on the Soudan we found the whole country in flood, and covered with elephant grass ten to fifteen feet high. The transport animals could not, and the transport drivers would not, go on. Somals and Abyssinians alike put their feet down and said we were mad to continue. We only replied that, as far as we were concerned, there was no turning back, but that if they wished to do so we acquiesced. My friend, with whom I was travelling, had some Bantu servants, and a couple of Arabs, who stayed by him, and of all the others I was left only with Mahomed Fara. There was no hesitation or doubt on his part.

"Do you wish to return or will you follow me, Mahomed? You have a free choice."

"I shall follow you," said Mahomed.

Stores were thrown away and burnt, and our sadly diminished little party pushed on. What happened does not greatly concern this story, but, among other things, we ran short of food, and passed throughmostly uninhabited country. It was a miserable trek, and we were nearly always hungry. Once, when we met with natives, we purchased dug-out canoes, and as the country was one mass of waterways it looked as if our troubles might be nearing an end. But the canoes were heavy and there was little current to help them along. Sometimes, when worn out with the day's paddling and we wished to camp, not a dry spot could be found for miles and miles. When we found it it was nearly always infested with red ants that resented our intrusion, and made our lives a hell upon earth. When there were no red ants there were mosquitoes. As we pushed through the long grass, seeking something dry to burn, these latter attacked us in swarms. Then the day came when we were all on edge, and little unimportant things began to look out of all proportion to their size. As for Mahomed he was nearing collapse.

We were paddling down stream, my friend with a couple of Bantu in one canoe, Mahomed, an Arab, and I in another. The canoes were almost side by side, and the Bantus jeeringly called our attention to Mahomed, who, with closed eyes and limp body, was automatically dipping his paddle in-and-out of the water.

I looked at him. When a man has been suffering pure, unadulterated misery for days and nights onend the devils that are in his heart wax strong, and on the slightest excuse take charge. The sight of the forlorn, delicate Mahomed, instead of exciting pity within my breast, made me see red. Why should my man be flopping about like a dying duck in a thunderstorm, whilst these other fellows were still putting their backs into it? It was disgraceful!

"Curse you, and curse you, and curse you again! Pull yourself together, you apology for a man, and try at least to look like one!"

Mahomed was done—all in—but there was a something in the fellow that kept those lean arms moving spasmodically, and gripped the thin fingers to the paddle-handle. There was no gallery there to play to remember. If he had put the paddle down and said, "I am beaten; I can't go on," nothing would have happened. But he just carried on. That there was no change in his attitude annoyed me, and the Bantus laughed. Then, to my eternal shame, I sprang forward and struck him; struck him savagely as I would not strike a horse were it as tired as he. He did not flinch from the blow, but just pulled himself together and looked at me. The incident is twelve years old, but I have never forgotten that look. When I think of it I feel as ashamed of myself now as I did when I faced it.

The next day we camped on a dry piece of ground, and it was a case of shooting something for the pot. We had our choice of two varieties of game, doves and elephant, both with the rifle. There was no other animal-life fit for food. Mahomed and I found an elephant standing near an ant heap in long grass. I could not shoot from the side as the grass hid the animal when I stood on the ground, and when I sat on the ant heap his head was at an angle slightly pointing away from me. The one shot offering any hope of success was the frontal head one. This offered but a poor chance of success, but I wanted to get it over, and decided to take it. Mahomed stood behind me with a spare .303, and I, with a .318 in my hand, watched the big brute swaying on his legs as he dozed in the sun. On his head lay a great bunch of grass, which now and then fell to the ground, only to be picked up in his trunk and sleepily returned to its place as head-covering.

Then I fired, and as I had feared, the bullet struck at too great an angle and lodged harmlessly in the mass of forehead-bone. Then things moved. The brute saw me: I whipped back the bolt of my magazine rifle, and, as I pushed it home, the end of a bandage I was wearing on my hand fouled, with the inevitable consequence—a jam. So there I was, perched on an ant heap, in full view of an infuriatedelephant, who, with uplifted trunk, came to investigate. The rifle was worse than jammed, because it was fast to my hand with a bandage that seemed to have the strength of a hundred ropes. Mahomed was behind and below with the spare rifle, and could neither see nor do anything. There was room for but one man on the heap to which I stuck, trying frantically to clear my hand. With a shout of "Hold on," Mahomed reached up, tore clear the rifle, bandage and all, and passed the .303 just in time. When it was all over—it was a matter of seconds—I came down and looked at him. Just looked at him, for I could not speak. Mahomed Fara looked back and smiled. We were even. In return for the cowardly blow I had dealt him yesterday he had, by his coolness and presence of mind, saved my life. When I did find my tongue I said, "By God, you are a man," and that closed the incident between us for ever.

Long afterwards, whilst Mahomed was still my servant, we met again one of the Bantus who had laughed at him from the canoe. It was Christmas day, I remember, but he and Mahomed broke the peace outside my bungalow. My friend, he of the canoe, and I ran out together to separate them, but the native head-man told us we would only delay matters by interfering. They had to fight until one was broken.

"Let them fight," said my friend, "let them fight it out."

I looked at Mahomed and saw that he was as thin and delicate as ever, and, to my mind, it seemed his nine stone of flesh and blood must be beaten to pulp by the fourteen stone brute who stood before him.

"Aye, let us fight it out, Sahib," said Mahomed, reading my thoughts, "things have gone too far; wemustfight."

"Very well," I reluctantly assented, "but your blood be on your own head."

As I expected the Bantu simply smothered the Somal. Although we barred sticks, knives, or stone-throwing (don't smile, Africans use those things in preference to bare fists) there were many foul blows given and received—more often received by Mahomed—until at last the weaker man was in dire straits. Again and again he staggered to his feet only to hit the ground immediately afterwards.

"Stop. Give in, Mahomed. He's a better man physically, and he'll kill you!"

"I shall never give in," replied Mahomed. "He is a slave and I am his master!"

And then the spirit in him began to triumph over his adversary, who, though quite unhurt, now showed signs of fear. Once he fell to the ground, and seizing Mahomed's leg bit it to the bone. For thisact he was rewarded by a kick on the face that gave him the wished-for excuse to "play possum." The battered Mahomed now began to kick his adversary feebly on the body with bare feet, and the latter cried out to us to save him.

"Admit you are beaten!" said Mahomed.

"I am beaten!" said the Bantu.

Afterwards I married. The change of life from the single to the blessed state affects not only the European dweller in Africa, but also his servant. Where a wipe here and a flick there with a duster, in the old days, constituted tidying up the house, everything now must be cleaned and polished with scrupulous care. There are also ever so many things that were never done in the old times more than twice a year—and that a record year—that now call for attention every day. A bachelor's servants rarely remain long with him after he marries. But Mahomed was one of the exceptions. When the first baby came he was as delighted as I, and when others followed he seemed to share the heavy cares of family life equally with me. I can pay him the greatest compliment a white man can pay the native. Wherever the children might be I felt that if Mahomed were there, and alive, they were safe. His own marriage to an older woman was unhappy, and one day, yielding to her importunities, he allowed her to go. She left him a young son. Hismother had been rendered destitute as the outcome of a wild raid by the Mad Mullah, and Mahomed brought her, and a young brother, to Jubaland, where we lived. I had then an opportunity of learning that he was a good son.

When war broke out in August, 1914, Mahomed and I, for the first few days, took little heed. We were too far removed from the European world to realise what was coming. But, soon afterwards, I left Mahomed to help bring up the children, whilst I went off to join the King's African Rifles.

Later it was so arranged, by collusion withsomeonewho ought not to have been so unselfish, that he might again taste the joys and discomforts of the old wild free life on the veldt. So Mahomed came to be my servant in the M.I. Wherever I went he followed, though he was cautioned again and again that his duty was with the horses, or in the column, and not in following me round like a dog, even to the firing line. M.I. work in the early days of the G.E.A. campaign was more than exciting, and the men could not understand why Mahomed never failed to accompany them if he had the chance, instead of staying behind with the crowd. But we had a secret, he and I. It was something about a letter that had to be delivered by him under certain contingencies; contingencies that occurred in thecareers of many good men, alas, only too often in those days.

Then, one day in March, 1915, at Mwaika Hill in German East Africa, the M.I. ran right into it. For five minutes it was touch and go. I was commanding Somals, and it was the first doubtful corner we had been in together. I was not sure of them for the moment. Let me hasten to say that I am now, sure of, and proud to have commanded them. But on that occasion we were a bit mixed, just a little in the air, and it was vital that we should hold a bad position whilst the column behind deployed for action. There were swarms of bullets about, and I had a suspicion that, mixed up as we were with the Hun askaris, some of those same bullets were coming from our own side. I had joined in a short rush, and was lying ready to order another, when someone came with a run and threw himself beside me. It was Mahomed, and a fine old storm of bullets he brought with him.

"What are you doing here, Mahomed? You ought to be back at the horses."

"Sahib, I promised the Mem-Sahib to look after you, and I've come to warn you that you are not taking cover properly. These people are shooting straight and shooting to kill the officers. It is foolish for you to keep moving about. Please take cover properly."

"Well, now you are here at the Mem-Sahib's orders, do you think you can do anything? Can you catch one of these bullets in your hand? It is you who are foolish."

But all the same after that warning I was more careful to take cover.

We were sending back for ammunition, and Mahomed was told off to accompany the messenger, more to get him out of danger than anything else. But the messenger was killed on the way, and, meanwhile, we were relieved, and received orders to get back to the horses and mount. On our way we met Mahomed again, returning with an ammunition mule whose syce had also been killed; and it seemed to him as if the German and British forces had combined to pick him off, and the wretched mule with him. He had been "through it," and there was a look on his face that reminded me of the day I had struck him on the river. Two men relieved him of his charge, and we dragged the disobedient Mahomed back with us, the men keeping an eye on him to see that he ran into no further danger. He was not a soldier, but he was out to risk his life to keep a promise he had made to the Mem-Sahib, and no one would want to accuse him of being a medal-hunter for doing it.

Then Mahomed and I parted, and it was a great breaking-up. The kiddies to England, and he andI missed one another, and did not meet again for more than two years. It was just luck. After the armistice I was on my way home, and, as the train was about to pull out of Nairobi station, we met again. Mahomed hurried on to the platform with a basket of fruit, for he had heard I was ill. He jumped into the carriage, and in a few seconds had arranged my few belongings comfortably. It was a kindly thought, that little service, and worth to me more than the gift of fruit. The memory of it is still sweet. Mahomed, even in the stress and rush of a railway parting, where he had to stand back whilst I spoke to more important people than him, could find pleasure in doing little things for his old master. He had a long memory, had Mahomed.

"If you return I wish to enter your service again," he said, when I had time to give him a moment.

"You are a millionaire now, Mahomed. You are drawing exactly twice the pay I can afford to give you."

"Never mind that; I want to come back on the old pay."

But Mahomed and I are getting on in life, and he has responsibilities. I could not permit him to make such a sacrifice, and so we parted.

Such is the tale of Mahomed Fara, Mahomed theSomal. I do not deny that there were occasions when he kicked over the traces; that he had within him the wild strain of his breed responsive to injury, real or imagined, even as a barrel of gunpowder to a red-hot poker. But I have just pictured him as I found him, and, although he is black and I am white, I am proud to call him "friend."

Trade sources and commodities—A typical manifest—The old Jew goldsmith.

I call this chapter commerce. Not the commerce so dryly described in the mass of Zeila tabulated customs' returns that lie before me on the desk as I write. Into these figures, at a first glance, it would seem almost impossible to weave the slightest suspicion of adventure or romance. Yet the pursuit of our trade is not without adventure; often adventure of the good old-fashioned kind—well spiced with danger. But the main, and practically the only, industry of Somaliland is cattle raising, unless one includes the pursuit of war as an industry. If so it is a dying one. With the proceeds of the sale of his surplus cattle the Somal buys goods from all parts of the world. Cloth from America, Europe, Arabia, and India; bowls and other knick-knacks from Japan; the bulk, or all, of which comes to him through the great clearing house of the near east, Aden.

Although a couple of small coastal steamersowned by an Aden firm visit our port at stated intervals, most of our sea-borne trade is carried in the holds of dhows. The Zeila fleet is not a large one, and plies between the comparatively near ports of Berbera, Aden, Jibouti, Perim, towns on the Arabian coast; Assab, an Italian port in the Red Sea, and several other unimportant places. From Assab come mats for covering the huts and tents; string, and the leaf of the doum palm. This latter the women of Zeila plait in their spare time, as our women do knitting, into long flat strips, which are afterwards sewn into bags and mats. But the best mat grass comes from Berbera, and I have one mat plaited from this grass which is truly a work of art. Interwoven with the plaited grass are thin strips of red and blue cloth, forming a diamond pattern of tasteful design; the result being an article that pleases the most fastidious eye.

Apart from cloth, dates, rice, and sugar are our chief imports. Dates are a splendid and highly nutritious food, eaten daily if procurable. They come to us from Mokulla, Muscat, and Basra, and are, more often than not, transhipped at Aden. But our dhows are enterprising craft and go a-trading themselves. Here is the manifest of one that arrived home to-day:

"Dhow Fathal Kheir, Master Said Musa; cargo:250packages of dates30bags of lime2bundles of mat bags1package of sweets6bundles of coir rope—all from Mokulla."

"Dhow Fathal Kheir, Master Said Musa; cargo:

250packages of dates30bags of lime2bundles of mat bags1package of sweets6bundles of coir rope—all from Mokulla."

From Basra come, in addition to the dates, grain, carpets, and sweetmeats, the latter being the well-known Turkish delight. The carpets are disappointing, and it is to be feared that, though they actually come from Basra, the majority are made in Europe. I have only been able to secure one drugget of undoubtedly eastern manufacture, but it is so fiercely coloured that it will swear at everything in a civilised room. In the old days real, genuine carpets found their way here from Basra, and other ports. I have seen one such, though over fifty years of age, whose colours are as bright and fresh now as on the day it was made.

The dhows bring all sorts of delightful things to gladden the heart of the European collector. I picked up two lovely old brass-bound chests made from a rich black wood, finely carved by a delicate hand. None of your barbarous eastern designs. I have seen many old chests, but these of mine are, in my opinion, incomparable. They are to me a perfect joy, but can only be described by an artist,and I am not one. Sometimes I turn the massive brass key of one, and throw open the lid, when the faintest and most delicate smell of incense steals forth to tell how, long before these boxes came into my hands, they were used by Arab ladies to store their delicate silks and fripperies. What is their history? I know not. I was lucky to acquire them, for the old Arab families rarely part with such heirlooms, for heirlooms they are, or were.

And then, sometimes, one finds the most wonderful old pottery. Plates that the old Arab grandmothers, years ago, hung upon their walls for ornament, and, incidentally, to prove their very good taste. That these people do have good taste, and some cultivation, is shown by their high appreciation of such articles, all of which came to our shores in the dhow holds. Who dares to say that our commerce has not its spice of romance?

Of our exports skins are the most important. Horned cattle come next. From Abyssinia has been known to come, in one consignment, ivory, coffee, and civet. The coffee is from Harrar; famous for its long berry and delicate flavour. For the latter quality I can vouch. My cook buys the berries at eightpence the pound and has them roasted and ground by a woman expert in the town. Gums and frankincense, gathered from the wild trees, are alsovaluable products that find their way hither in small parcels, hidden among the camel loads of grain and skins. Large caravans of the "ships of the desert" enter the town daily, and many are the stories of "loots" and wild doings they report of the hinterland through which they have passed. With the exception of a little of the coffee, incense, ghee (rancid butter), and grain, this latter from Abyssinia, all they bring goes to the dhows for export.

The incense is used by Somal and all Mahomedan women to perfume themselves. A small earthenware brazier is filled with burning charcoal, on which is sprinkled the incense. Over the brazier the lady stands, covering it and the smoke with her petticoat, should she wear one, or the sheet-like robe that drapes her body. As a result she is well fumigated, and if, afterwards, to the European nostrils she exhales a sickly smell of stale incense what matters it; for European prejudices she cares but little, and her husband has, I regret to state, an abominable taste in scents, and thinks she smells fine. Perhaps she does.

In our town the manufactures are few but interesting. There is the old Midgan woman who makes the earthenware pots and water ewers. She is a marvel of expertness. With her fingers she will mould a pot from a piece of mud whilst you arelooking at her. There is no wheel, no model; it is all done with the fingers alone. A water vessel with a slender neck appears as if by magic. It is as if she were making passes in the air with her hands, and the thing appears like the Indian conjurer's mango tree. Our pot woman would make her fortune on a London music-hall stage, and she is such a friendly soul; her smile is like a tonic.

Then we have iron, silver, and goldsmiths. The former make knives, daggers, spearheads and arrowheads for men, and little household utensils for the women. The silversmiths squat on their mud floors and mould and hammer out all kinds of ornaments: silver anklets, chains, bracelets, neck-amulets, and huge silver beads for the women; silver rings set with huge moon and other cheap stones, the bigger the better, for the men. Terrible affairs these rings, that set one's teeth on edge; but the other ornaments are well made and not at all inartistic. The little silver vessels, covered with filigree work, used to hold the black paint with which the women accentuate their eyebrows, and the henna for staining their fingers, always appeal to me. One silversmith has a box full of every kind of second-hand ornament. One day I was present when he turned it out and I pounced upon one of these paint vessels which he refused to sell. It was in pawn, as were the other articles.

The old Jew goldsmith has bars of gold shaped like small sticks of solder. Pure Abyssinian gold it is, too. He has old, old dies for making medallions, the inscriptions on which neither he nor anyone else in Zeila can read. These medallions, always of gold, are fashioned with tiny connecting links of chain into handsome necklaces. How I'd love to rummage through his boxes, but he is discouraging, and barely allows me a glimpse of the wonderful old things he owns, or perhaps holds in trust. He is our fashionable jeweller, but he, too, squats on his haunches on the floor to beat out the most beautiful things with his hammer, on an anvil no bigger than six inches of steel railway rail. He is anxious that I should commission him to make a pair of ear-rings for "Madam." I am to provide pearls and design, he the gold and craftsmanship. But then I am no draughtsman, and I am not sure whether "Madam" would after all appreciate our combined efforts! I have suggested that we let the matter stand over until I hear from "Madam," to whom I have referred it. He says it is a waste of time to wait. "Madam" is sure to say "Yes," and, if she does, I shall get good value for my money. If all is as it appears to be I most certainly shall. A golden trinket, when completed, he places in one balance of a tiny pair of scales, and balances it with silver four anna-bits. For every silver coin in the scale one pays him threeand a half rupees in settlement for the gold; then, for every rupee you have paid for the gold you add a quarter rupee for his work—and the article is yours ... or "Madam's."

Timber—Navigation—The dhow and the slave trade—Dhow captains.

There is no good timber on the Somaliland coast. The wood from which our dhows are built is imported. By far the best comes from the famous forests of Witu and Malindi on the British East African coast. This latter, called Bamba Kofi by the natives of Witu and Lamu, is nowadays very rare and worth its weight in gold. The work put into the dhows is rough and good. There is never any hurry or rush in their construction, and the only tools used are the adze, the brace and bit, the saw and hammer. The boats are painted with the brightest colours procurable, but at a pinch porpoise fat and lime make a passable substitute for paint.

We have no monster craft like the Basra dhow, carrying two thousand packages of dates, such as was wrecked off Berbera some years ago. The biggest boat we have, and we are indeed proud of her, barely carries her three hundred sacks of rice,and boasts no compass. Her captain does not require one; he knows the fourteen stars of the hot season and the fourteen stars of the cold season, each of which he will tell you is seen for thirteen days or nights only. As forNutandThurayain the cool season,Akil,Kaleh,Shole,Suod, andSuhail, though they be of the twenty-eight stars used by dhow-men to steer by when they are in the heavens, beware! High winds may be expected. "And if it is so dark that you cannot see the stars?" I once asked a dhow captain. "Unless we are dangerously near to the shore, or there are reefs about, we just go on. One can't get lost in the Gulf of Aden."

But often dhows do get lost in the Gulf of Aden; and I mean it in the literal sense. A few years ago the Zeila dhow,Sahalla, in charge of an Arab named Mahomed Hussain, bound from Berbera to Zeila with mail, a cargo of one hundred bags of jowari and thirteen passengers from Bulhar, capsized about four miles out to sea at half-past three of an August afternoon. Three men and one woman were drowned, and several persons clinging to a mast were in the sea for three days. A small boy seized the tail of a sheep and clung on until the animal dragged him ashore. As a rule sheep are poor swimmers, but luckily for the youngster, who could not swim, this beast was an exception.

In years gone by Zeila dhows saw exciting service in the slave trade, but the old dhow captains are naturally reticent concerning any part they may have taken in it. Even the ex-slaves, all of whom profess to be devout Mahomedans, prefer to keep secret, if possible, the story of their adventures and release. According to the jail-master, who is one of the latter, he was nothing but the adopted son of a slave-master, who spent much of his time in teaching his protégé the intricacies and mysteries of the true faith. He holds such a good position nowadays, does our jail-master, that people are charitable enough to forget that he was once "only a slave and a heretic." Human nature is like that.

In the old records, which I am never tired of reading, there is a copy of a statement, made on oath, twenty-five years ago by two slaves who made their escape from an Assab pearling dhow working on the Arabian coast. In the dead of night they slipped away with the dhow's one and only boat, and were lost for days. In the last extremity of thirst and hunger they made Perim. From thence a kindly British Resident sent them on to Zeila, where they told a tale of such brutal ill-treatment at the hands of their late masters, that it called forth the practical sympathy of the officer-in-charge, who helped them in every possible way. One of these men is dead, and the other has become one of ourleading petty traders. It would be considered by this latter to be the height of bad form to rake up the old story concerning his past. He likes to think that the older generation has almost forgotten his humble origin, and that the younger may in time come to believe that his children are descended from one of the old Arab sheikhs, to whom all respectable Zeilawis are related. I wonder if they are?

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