CHAPTER X

DHOWA NAKHODA (CAPTAIN) AND HIS FAMILY.

A NAKHODA (CAPTAIN) AND HIS FAMILY.

The dhow captains are ever ready for an adventure, and, until recently, many came their way. Towards the end of 1916 a number of German secret service men, who had been endeavouring to stir up trouble for the allies by interfering in the politics of the ex-King of Abyssinia, Lij Yassu, and even of the Mad Mullah, determined to leave Africa, as fate was against them. One of these men walked from Abyssinia, and keeping to the French and British Somaliland border approached the coast, where he had arranged with the captain of a dhow to pick him up and take him to Arabia. But the Zeila and Djibouti police were on the look out, and acting on "information received" the dhow was arrested. Shortly afterwards the despondent German was only too glad to give himself up at Djibouti. His chance of escaping to Arabia was hopeless, and he was a lucky man to have reached the coast alive. Others of his ilk did not succeed in doing so, and it is on recordthat one of them perished miserably of thirst in the bush.

Nowadays, thanks to the British Navy, slave-running and gun-running are "industries" of the past, and the dhow captains, whose hearts are still unchanged, confine their activities, in the illegitimate line, to landing a parcel of silk or cloth at night when the coast is clear. A party of conservancy sweepers has even been known to find, hidden in the garbage that strews our beach, a parcel of firearms landed by some fire-eater who is now repenting his venture in Berbera jail. The dhow men unanimously agree that life is becoming decidedly dull. That it is still sweet is sometimes brought home to them as they fight their open craft through the sudden storms that often take them unawares in these waters; or when, as has been known to happen, a dhow laden with live stock has a hole knocked through her bottom by a restless bullock. The hole has been stopped with the clothes torn from the backs of the crew, and the water that found its way in, and threatened to send all hands to the bottom, bailed out by desperate men armed with bowls, scoops, cups, and any other utensil that came to hand. For, be it known, our Arab and Somal sailormen never dream of danger, and when danger comes it always finds them unprepared, but, full of fight whilst they consider there isa chance. When they realise they must face the worst no vain regrets are wasted on might-have-beens. They humbly bow the neck to fate, and, like their fathers of old, comfort themselves with the thought that what is to be will be—"Inshallah."

British and French pressure—The general question—A naval narrative.

But though dhow captains and ex-slaves keep their mouths shut, the old records, fortunately, tell us something concerning the slave trade, which, thirty odd years ago, the British took such effective measures to stamp out in all territory coming under their influence. I am speaking of the Red Sea and Somali coast. Before the French began to make their presence felt in what is now French Somaliland, and whilst that territory was still a sort of no man's land between British territory on the south and Italian territory on the north, the principal port for the exportation of slaves was at Tajura on the gulf of that name, a small Danakil native town north-west of Djibouti. Danakil territory extends far north of Tajura along the coast into Italian territory, past Asab, another small port on the Red Sea.

The trade was in the hands of the Sultan of Tajura, his friends and a few other influential natives. These people owned dhows flying the Arab flag, and were in the habit of running their human cargointo the port of Hodeidah. As British pressure was more and more brought to bear from the south, and similar Italian pressure from the north, it is easy to understand that the trade at Tajura increased greatly, particularly after that port, held for some time by a small Egyptian garrison, was finally abandoned by the Egyptian government, thus removing the slight restraint caused by the necessity of bribing the Egyptian officials.

But, simultaneously with their effective occupation of the Southern Danakil coast, stern measures were taken by the French against the Sultan of Tajura and his friends, whose activities were, in consequence, gradually curtailed, and finally forced to cease altogether. The Italians experienced the greatest difficulty of all in destroying the trade as their ports were situated in the Red Sea, and nearer to the slave markets. Dhows from there ran less risk of capture than those from the French and British ports, which had to pass through the straits of Perim. But the Italians were keenly alive to this fact, and spared no efforts to stamp out the nefarious trade.

In regard to the general question—the best means of suppressing slavery in this part of Africa, at the time of which I speak—the minds of the various authorities were much concerned, some advocating one course of procedure, others another.

The following narrative by the commander of a British man-o'-war not only provides a vivid description of how the work was done, but throws some light on the horrors of the trade itself. It is headed "Successful capture of slaves off Moka in the Red Sea," and runs as follows:—

"On the morning of 16th September, 1888, at daylight, three dhows were sighted from the ship, steering to the northward with a fair breeze. The ship took up a position to cut them off from the shore, some five miles distant, and having closed them to about half a mile she hoisted the British flag, and fired blank charges from her guns as a signal to them to lower their sails. They paid no attention to the signals, but separating from each other tried to run past the ship and get inshore of her. It becoming evident now that they were slavers, shots were fired across their bows as a further warning, and they were hailed also to lower their sails. Their only reply was a jeering shout, as they were running very fast, and it appeared as though two at least must escape capture; but they reckoned without their host, as will be seen further on.GOVERNMENTA GOVERNMENT CHARTERED DHOW, ZEILA."The ship beat to quarters, and orders were given to fire at the masts of the dhows. Shots from the seven inch and the sixty-four prs. passed repeatedly through their sails, but masts and halyards were notstruck and the dhows held on their courses, rapidly diminishing the distance between them and the shore, now only about two miles distant. The order was then given to open fire with the Gardner guns in the Tops, at the dhows' poops where the steersman sits. The effect of the showers of bullets was instantaneous; the captain of the largest dhow was killed at once, and, no one caring to take his place at the helm, she came to the wind and the crew lowered her sail. An armed boat was sent to take charge of her."The ship then chased No. 2 dhow, who seeing the first dhow had given in lowered her sail and gave in also. In the meanwhile No. 3 dhow had got far away, and an exciting chase took place, the ship firing from all her guns at every possible chance, the dhow doing her best to get away; but a lucky hit brought her to, her captain, being struck while steering her by a shot from the Gardner gun, sprang up and fell overboard; she then gave in. While chasing this dhow, dhow No. 2 had tried to hoist her sail and get away, but the boat's crew promptly opened fire on her with their rifles; she then finally gave in. The crews and owners of the slaves were then brought on board (thirty-three in number). These men were in charge of the slaves, but the real owners are large merchants in Jeddah, Mecca, Hodeida, and other Turkish ports in the Red Sea.The slaves, two hundred and four in number, were then brought on board; they were chiefly from the district of Goojan in Abyssinia; the females especially seemed to have been well taken care of as they fetch a high price. The dhows were then taken in tow and the ship proceeded to Aden."The greater part of the rescued slaves were Christians, amongst whom were some very clean, tidy, and intelligent girls varying from six to eighteen years of age. It seems monstrous that they should be taken to satisfy the lusts of Turkish Mahomedans. They were all well looked after on board, and seemed to recognise that they were among friends, for they were soon laughing and chatting; parties among them who had been separated in the dhows were hugging and kissing each other in a very affectionate manner. Whatever their future may be it cannot be worse than that from which they have escaped. A great many Europeans at Aden are offering to take care of them, and there seems every chance of the greater part at least having happy homes."

GOVERNMENTA GOVERNMENT CHARTERED DHOW, ZEILA.

A GOVERNMENT CHARTERED DHOW, ZEILA.

"The ship beat to quarters, and orders were given to fire at the masts of the dhows. Shots from the seven inch and the sixty-four prs. passed repeatedly through their sails, but masts and halyards were notstruck and the dhows held on their courses, rapidly diminishing the distance between them and the shore, now only about two miles distant. The order was then given to open fire with the Gardner guns in the Tops, at the dhows' poops where the steersman sits. The effect of the showers of bullets was instantaneous; the captain of the largest dhow was killed at once, and, no one caring to take his place at the helm, she came to the wind and the crew lowered her sail. An armed boat was sent to take charge of her.

"The ship then chased No. 2 dhow, who seeing the first dhow had given in lowered her sail and gave in also. In the meanwhile No. 3 dhow had got far away, and an exciting chase took place, the ship firing from all her guns at every possible chance, the dhow doing her best to get away; but a lucky hit brought her to, her captain, being struck while steering her by a shot from the Gardner gun, sprang up and fell overboard; she then gave in. While chasing this dhow, dhow No. 2 had tried to hoist her sail and get away, but the boat's crew promptly opened fire on her with their rifles; she then finally gave in. The crews and owners of the slaves were then brought on board (thirty-three in number). These men were in charge of the slaves, but the real owners are large merchants in Jeddah, Mecca, Hodeida, and other Turkish ports in the Red Sea.The slaves, two hundred and four in number, were then brought on board; they were chiefly from the district of Goojan in Abyssinia; the females especially seemed to have been well taken care of as they fetch a high price. The dhows were then taken in tow and the ship proceeded to Aden.

"The greater part of the rescued slaves were Christians, amongst whom were some very clean, tidy, and intelligent girls varying from six to eighteen years of age. It seems monstrous that they should be taken to satisfy the lusts of Turkish Mahomedans. They were all well looked after on board, and seemed to recognise that they were among friends, for they were soon laughing and chatting; parties among them who had been separated in the dhows were hugging and kissing each other in a very affectionate manner. Whatever their future may be it cannot be worse than that from which they have escaped. A great many Europeans at Aden are offering to take care of them, and there seems every chance of the greater part at least having happy homes."

That report was written thirty-one years ago, and the slave trade is a thing of the past. At least, just so long as civilised nations continue to hold and administer this wild country. But the hearts of the men who are now our subjects are the heartsof the slavers their fathers, fierce, cruel, and unchanged. I think the story told by the gallant sailor is sufficient justification for our coming here, and for our remaining here. It certainly convinces me.

The Kharif—The month of Ramathan—The Sahib's gift and others.

It is June, the season of the "Kharif"; the Kharif that has three elements—wind, dust, and heat. Zeila sky reminds me, this morning, of a Sheffield sky, covered at dawn with a pall of yesterday's foul smoke. The atmosphere is such as that near a huge furnace whose fires have burned out during the night. One can still feel the dead heat that will, later, take on a new, fierce life, as old Sol, then tipping the eastern horizon with a dull glow, rises higher into the heavens.

The sea is grey and dull, the dullness of a cooling mass of molten metal sprinkled with fine ash. Not the greyness, or dullness, that heralds a change of weather, but that of tired burned-out nature, waking unrefreshed from her night's sleep. All night long Nature has tossed in troubled dreams, and now wakes to life, haunted by a vague wild feeling of oppression; an undefinable oppression almost akin to despair.

There is no bright awakening here, with colouredcheeks and sparkling eyes. The face that nature turns towards the pitilessness of the new-born day is drawn and anxious. She is too tired to plead for mercy; too listless to try anew the thousand wiles that she alone is mistress of. Here is the stokehold of the world, and the devils who control it are lighting the fires.

At midday the town of Zeila is fast asleep, for this is the month of Ramathan; the month that all good Mahomedans give up to prayer and fasting. The average Zeilawi, or Somal, cannot tell you why. The "Book" says it must be done, and that is all about it. They have heard and read something of Mahomed's son, or was it Mahomed himself, being poisoned by a Jew, and perhaps that is the reason. They will look it up and see. So, whilst the fast is on, they turn night into day and day into night. All those who can sleep through the day and pray and feast at night. The fast is observed between the hours of four a.m. and sunset. Others less fortunate, who must work through the day, have a hard time. Not a sup of water nor bite of bread will pass their lips until dusk.

It follows that the work suffers. The chairs and tables in my bungalow are thick with dust: the house is untidy and uncomfortable. My servants are fasting. At sundown they come to life, and, after prayer, break their fast. When they have administered tomy wants they go to the town where they play, pray, and feast all night with their friends.

To-night I heard the cannon fired at Jibouti by the French authorities to warn their Mahomedan subjects that the day had passed. I had been to the sports ground where a few of the keener lads had turned up to play hockey. Syyed Khudar the Arab, and his brother-in-law, were there, also Sub-inspector Buralli. Just before I arrived Syyed and the brother-in-law had quarrelled. Hungry men are angry men; blows followed words, and Buralli arrested them.

Buralli explained to me that the trouble between the two men was of long standing—"rooted deep down in their stomachs!" Syyed is an independent trader, his brother-in-law is a carpenter. The latter's wife continually twits him with his poverty, comparing her own hard lot with the easy one of her sister. In consequence, when the carpenter sees Syyed the whole world turns black—according to Buralli. But then Buralli is fasting too. After a good meal the whole world will be lighter coloured for them all. But there was no hockey.

As the sun sank in the west nature bestirred herself in a half-hearted effort to brighten up the skies. But all the colours fell from her tired hands into the sea, and spread across the face of the waters. Old gold, gold, vermilion, purples, a mad riot oftones, shades, and natural colours floated bewilderingly on the dull surface for a few fleeting moments, and were gone. Then the wind rose and lashed the sea into sullen anger, the while the crescent moon—symbol of Mahomedanism—smiled down complacently. Oh, Moon, well may you smile;you"that rule the night and see us not by day." But the moon smiles on. Perhaps she can see a fairer land than this. On she goes, through a sky, now clear, and covered with a million flecks of gold dust.

A chant breaks out in the centre of the town. Farther away a crowd of men are reciting a kind of litany on two notes, "Allah" on a high note and "Allah" on a low note; Allah-Allah; Allah-Allah; a harsh breathing sound. Suddenly a horn sounds from one of the dhows at anchor. Toot-toot-too-too-t-toot-too! There is a hush, the town is listening. Something is wrong. Lights appear at the end of the pier, and a boat puts off. A policeman runs to tell me that a dhow has broken loose. There is no one aboard except one small boy, and he it is who has sounded the alarm.

The chanting, praying, and singing in the town re-commences. Again there is an interruption. This time a woman screams. Scream follows scream, until I send to inquire what is happening. My orderly returns and informs me, with a grin, that a "bint" is being soundly spanked by her mother.The young lady has been gallivanting without permission, and the sound of her cries heard all over the town will doubtless deter other young ladies from keeping their appointments this night. How the disappointed swains will bless her!

For a little while longer I sit listening to the noises of the night. The wind falls abruptly, and the sea calms down. Shoals of fish dash through the shallow waters with a noise like the splashing of cattle crossing a ford. I lie down at last on my camp bed, placed for coolness on the veranda, and dose off. I am awakened by the maddening throbbing of a drum, beaten to warn the faithful to pray and prepare the last meal of the night. I look at the time; it is only one o'clock and people may eat up to four. Oh, why do they beat that wretched drum at this hour? On, on it throbs. In despair I take my pencil, and write until the throbbing ceases. It has ceased now.

To-day, the 29th June, is the last evening of Ramathan, that is if we see the new moon. Yesterday evening the townspeople failed to catch a glimpse of her, and even though one man came from El Kori to say he had seen her in the western sky for a few seconds, and though the big gun at Djibouti fired ever so many shots at sundown, our Kathi must needs have four witnesses sworn on the Koran ere he could grant permission to the people to break theirfast. As for the big gun, have we not heard, but a few days ago, that the peace treaty has been signed, and might not the firing we hear from the French side be on that score. So all this day the Zeilawis have fasted, and at intervals the French gun has boomed out. I am certain we are a day behind, but the Kathi was quite right to run no risks.

Just now Buralli, and Mahomed the interpreter, came to ask for permission to bury an Arab close to the Sheikh's tomb. He was a very influential man who has died, according to the sub-assistant-surgeon's diagnosis, of carbuncle on the neck. Of all days in the year this is the best one to die, for on it the gates of Paradise are unlocked—no one is denied—and the Arab is considered to be a very fortunate man. Not that he had ever done anything to make his reception at heaven's gate in any way doubtful, but the accident of the day makes things certain. My servant, who is something of a radical, was much impressed with the fact, after I had granted permission for the body to be interred near the tomb (which, being near to the town, is closed to the public as a burying ground) that a distinction could still be made between a rich man and a poor man, even after death.

Well, to-day ends the Mahomedan old year, and it is, practically, in this part of the world, New Year's Eve.

I have been astonished to-day to discover how popular I have become, and I have met with nothing but thoughtfulness and consideration for my convenience and comfort shown by people, some of whom I hardly knew by name. This morning the jail-master came, personally, to see with his own eyes that the one and only cocoanut tree in front of my bungalow was properly watered by the prisoners. Again this evening he came, and, although fresh water is as precious here as beer in England, this jolly good-hearted fellow had that tree watered again. I was touched, but not to the extent of more than half a rupee.

It is New Year's Eve, you know, and one can show one's appreciation of thoughtfulness and kindness in others in the shape of a small gift—silver rupees preferred—without hurting the recipient's feelings. All the sahibs make small gifts at this time. My servant taught me that. He said that, although he had never yet asked his master for a present on the Yom-el-'Id, and never would, he had never yet failed to receive one on that day. Being in a strong position to do so I felt tempted to break his record, but no ordinary mortal likes to be an exception to the rule, and I have fallen into line. The people expect it.

Haji Abdi Kheiri, a Somal trader, and by way of being one of our Napoleons of finance, called on methis evening to donate twenty rupees to the poor fund, a good way of ending the old year. He has made some profitable deals in cattle at Djibouti, and assures me that God expects it of him to come down handsomely for the wretched poor. He has already one wife, and is reputed to be looking round for another, with the result that there is much excitement amongst the ladies of the town. He is a stout man, and, compared with the slim handsome bedouin Somal, is rather coarse looking, but the majority of the townswomen would overlook that, and would jump at the opportunity of getting their pretty fingers inside his money boxes. Good luck to him I say. May Allah prosper him further; it will help the poor fund.

Unfortunately, the peace of this day has been upset by people whose nerves have gone a little wrong on account of the long fast and the broken nights. The Midgan, sandal-maker, passed from the hut of one of his wives, where he had been visiting, to that of another, who said to him, "You never take off your shoes when you come tothishouse," meaning by that he was paying too much attention to the other wife. As the shoemaker made no reply the woman took off her sandal and beat him with it, screaming the while for the police. When the police came she said: "You must lock us both up as we have been fighting." The police did, andat this moment the Midgan is spending some time in the same compartment as his neglected wife—and has his shoes off. Then Fatuma binti Ahamed, aged fourteen, was sent by her mother to buy milk in the bazaar from a woman who measured it out in a dirty cup. Fatuma, being a clean little person, objected, and, as the woman refused to clean the cup, she called her some names, which, by the way, are quite unprintable. But the milk woman had a lusty daughter, and between the pair of them they dealt severely with Fatuma. An Arab says he found them playing at tug-o'-war with her; one pulling at her neck and the other at her legs, also it was a very frightened little girl who ran home half naked to report why the milk was delayed. Her father has been making a great fuss, and the law, as represented by the D.C. right down to the office boy, and even the jail-master, has been called upon by him to vindicate itself. He was so unreasonable that I was strongly tempted to put him in with the Midgan and his wife until he cooled down. But then, some European daddies are just as silly when their little girls get into trouble through their own foolishness, and I have overlooked his nonsense.

The people have now seen the moon. It is nearly seven o'clock, and, though the sky is grey, the waters of the full tide are tinted with gorgeouscolours, a phenomenon I have not yet seen in any part of Africa but here. Policemen, sailors, rich men, poor men, beggarmen, thieves, are all at this moment out in the open praying aloud to Allah. Strangely enough at this hour, and for the first time since I have been in Zeila, I hear the voices of children at play, above the prayers of the adults. The Jibouti gun is booming away, and, as if to mock it, someone is firing an old blunderbuss outside the town. There is, as usual, not a woman in sight, but I can hear a few girls' voices thrilling out the wild African call, "Lu-lu-lu-lu-luuh!"

The praying is over, and now to food. We have killed the fat sheep and prepared the tastiest of dishes. Neither little child, old woman, nor any single soul need go hungry to bed in this town to-night. The people are rejoicing, and all must share in their joy.

A remedy for loneliness—Mohamed's Story—Buralli's "unfinished" story.

The first day of the Mahomedan New Year is nearing its close without anything unusual having occurred, for which let us touch wood and be duly thankful. At four o'clock this morning the people were astir, and afterwards, from my veranda, I watched the town beauties bathing in the sea. Perhaps I ought not to have looked, but Ididnotice that some of them had extraordinary fine figures, of which they were not ashamed. By half-past five all the bathers had gone to don their "glad rags," and the men and boys marched onto the sports ground behind my house, where a service was held in the open. Afterwards, the day long, there was dancing, singing, and feasting, in all of which the women were very much in evidence. At sunset another burst of prayer, more feasting, followed by general dancing and rejoicing, marred by only one fight. Fatuma Fareh, a divorced lady, invited to dance in a friend's compound, had patiently watched all the other women guests dance in their turn. When hers camethe dance broke up, and poor Fatuma, who loves dancing, was given no opportunity of showing what she could do on her feet. What she had to say about it must have been to the point for one of the women came back and smacked her face. Then the fight started.

I thought it better to keep away from the town, and Buralli and Mahomed, pitying my loneliness, came after dinner and sat with me in front of the bungalow.

"Please tell me one of your stories, Mahomed," I asked.

"Once upon a time," said Mahomed, "a man came to a Somal encampment, and at the entrance met a woman to whom he said: 'I do not talk with women, and am in a conversational mood. Is there ever a man here with whom I can have a chat?'

"'In this encampment,' said the woman, 'is only one man, and he lies asleep inside the tent.'

"'Well, wake him up,' said the man.

"'I am ashamed to wake him,' said the woman.

"'For what reason?' says he.

"'Because his mother is my mother's child and I am his father's wife,' she replied.

"That is my story," said Mahomed, "and sometimes a Somal will sit for two days trying to find out what relation that woman was to the sleeping man."

"I'll tell you a real story, Sahib," said the disgusted Buralli, "but it is naughty. Do you mind?"

Now what does it matter what I answered for Buralli told the story.

"Once upon a time," said he (it wouldn't be a real story if it did not start like that), "there was a very rich Somal who had a lovely daughter, and he swore on the Koran a hundred 'By Gods' that he would kill the first man who asked for her hand in marriage. He was a powerful Sheiba,[4]very handy with his spear or dagger, so, though many a youth loved the girl, not one dared approach her father with an offer of marriage. Now, the old man had large flocks and employed many herds to shepherd them, but it was his custom every morning to drive the animals himself forth from the kraal, allowing the herds, who had to be out all day in the sun, to sit until eight o'clock preparing their food and water for the day. On such occasions he went quite unarmed, and left his spear, shield, and dagger in his gurgi;[5]when his herds relieved him he walked back alone to his camp.

"A certain young man noticed the old man's habit and thought to himself, if I go armed in the morning to intercept and ask him for his daughter he cannot kill me because he carries no arms, therefore I will do this thing.

"So one morning the father found a young man awaiting him on the road.

"'What do you want?' he asked.

"'The hand of your daughter in marriage,' was the bold reply.

"'Have you not heard,' said the old man, 'what I have sworn to do with anyone making that request? Get out of my way!'

"'Not a bit of it, Old Man. I refuse to leave the path or to allow you to pass until you consent to my marriage with your daughter.'

"The old man raved and stormed, but, seeing he was cornered, said, 'Very well, let us go to the kurria together.'

"Now what did he want, this wise old man, but to lay hands on his dagger? Being deeply religious, and having passed his oath before all the big men of his section, he felt it would be impossible to break it by allowing this young man to live. But, as he walked along, the thought came to him: 'Why does this fellow, knowing me to be a man of my word, risk his life by asking for my daughter, when every other young man has held back? There can be no doubt that he has a stout heart, and would make a good husband for my girl.' So he stopped and asked the youth for an explanation.

"'Well,' said the young man, 'be it not hidden from you that I am renowned amongst my ownpeople, who live far from here, for three things. Firstly, I am shameless; no matter what I do I shall never be ashamed of it. Secondly, I am fearless; the man who can frighten me is not yet born. Thirdly, if a man ask me for anything I can give, even for my life, I cannot refuse him, and I always give with both hands and a glad heart.'

"So the old man was interested, and said to himself, 'I wonder if this fellow is speaking the truth. I shall try to find out, and, if he is not telling lies, I shall break my oath and spare his life.'

"And thus it came to pass that the couple returned to the gurgi together, and after the arrangements were completed the young man married the girl and prepared to settle down with her people.

"But his father-in-law said to him, 'You must take your wife and return to your own tribe!'

"'Very good, I am ready,' said he.

"The old man had three camels laden with mats and rich presents, and giving his son-in-law three days' food he said to him, 'I know you are poor, take these camels and set forth on your journey, but bear in mind this is all the property, you see packed on these camels' backs, that you can expect to receive from me.'

"When the man and his wife had gone his father-in-law sent for fifty of his boldest warriors and said to them, 'My son-in-law and his wife have taken theroad towards his own people. You must wait until he has been gone three days, and on the morning of the fourth day, when the food I have given him will be finished, you are to make an attack on his camp. Should he run away you are to kill him and tell my daughter to come home, but should he fight he must on no account be hurt, and you are then to bring him back to me, watching carefully on the road how he acts.'

"The warriors departed, and on the morning of the fourth day, when the young man was sitting under a tree feeling very weak and hungry, he saw them approaching in fighting array. He promptly saddled up his horse, and taking his shield and spear from his wife's hand, galloped amongst them and made a splendid fight.

"Seeing this the warriors held up their hands and called out: 'Hoi, hoi! Aman! Peace! We are your father-in-law's people and bear a message from him.'

"He listened to them, and agreed to return to his wife's people.

"That night there was no food, and the young man gave orders that one of his three camels should be killed.

"'You are foolish,' said his wife, 'for if you do this thing we must throw away the load the beast carries; don't forget we are very poor and may not expect any further presents from my father.'

"'I cannot see fifty men go hungry to save the load,' said her husband. 'I shall have the camel killed.'

"On the following night another camel was killed and its load thrown away, and again on the third night the last camel was killed, and the last of the old man's rich presents was thrown away into the bush.

"On the morning of the fourth day the party came to the old man's camp, to whom a true account of all that had happened was given by the warriors. He was delighted, and made much of his son-in-law, feasting him and paying him great honour.

"One day, after the evening prayer, the old man said: 'My son, it is time you explained to me why you are shameless, fearless, and generous beyond all men.'

"'That is easily done,' said the youth. 'Once I went with my section into battle; we were heavily outnumbered, and I was in the front rank. I noticed that of the men who were afraid and stayed a little behind many were killed by the spears that went over the heads of us who were doing the fighting. Thus I learned the lesson that man's life is not in his own keeping but in God's hands. When our time comes to die we cannot escape by running away or refusing to fight. So I know that God will call meat His own good time, and I leave it to Him, never worrying about my life. For this reason I am fearless.'

"'As for being generous, I am not really so as everything I give away I believe belongs to God, even as I told you my life is His. Once when my brothers and I were rich two poor men came to our camp and asked for food. We refused, and drove them forth into the bush. Near us lived a poor man and his wife, and to this couple the poor men went for shelter and a bite of food. They had but a few goats, of which they killed one, and gave the strangers to eat and made them welcome. We laughed and said it was meet the poor should help the poor. Soon after that the cattle plague came and swept off all our stock; we were left beggars, without a bite to eat. The stock of the poor man who had killed his goat for the poor men, sent to his gate by God, escaped the plague and multiplied so that he became rich. Thus I learned that we but hold the world's riches on trust, and God to Whom they belong can take them away from us in a single night. The good things that come my way I share with my less fortunate brethren whilst I have the opportunity, lest it should pass from my hands for ever.'

"And that is the end of the story," said Buralli.

"But you said it was a naughty story, Buralli, andyou have not explained why the young man was shameless."

Buralli's eye twinkled.

"That is the naughty part, Sahib."

Like Mark Twain's "indelicate story," but for a different reason, as Buralli did tell me why the young man was shameless, this story must remain incomplete.

His characteristics—Gulaid Abokr and his Yibir—The first Yibir and his talents—A "makran."

Before the war I lived in Southern Somaliland, where the "Sab," or outcast tribes of Northern Somaliland, are seldom met with, and it so happened that the first representative of the hunter people—the Midgans—whom I came across was the old pot-woman of Zeila. And as for my first Yibir, it was here I met and nearly passed him by. It is customary for the Midgan, who live by hunting, to attach themselves to a Somal family for protection, for which they pay by acting as hewers of wood and drawers of water. The Yibirs are much more sophisticated, and prefer, if possible, to live by their wits instead of soiling their hands by honest toil. Somals will not mix, or inter-marry, with either tribe, and look upon them as of inferior caste to themselves.

This is how I nearly missed my Yibir.

My cook and I had been going through the weekly accounts. He accused me of eating twelve eggsand three pounds of meat every single day of my life, and I accused him of carelessness in his method of handling the truth, and of extravagance in managing my commissariat. One ever gets but little change out of a cook, and when mine proved he was an honest man, and that I was a glutton, to his own satisfaction and my stupefaction, it was a bad moment for Gulaid Abokr to choose to come to me to borrow money. He came and stood below my veranda, coughing to attract my attention. He did—but he wouldnotgo away.

"Sahib, I am in trouble, Imustsee you."

"Gulaid Abokr," I replied, "the trouble you are in now is nothing to that you'll find yourself in presently if you don't go right now and take that villainous-looking companion of yours with you right out of my compound."

"I can't take him away, Sahib, he is a Yibir and is the cause of my trouble. Imustsee you."

I was so foolishly angry that I nearly fell over the veranda. I had barely recovered myself when I heard Gulaid say, "Sahib, I've just had a baby." It was really so funny that I had to forget the cook and my bad temper in a hearty laugh.

"Come up here, you freak," I said, "and tell me all about it."

He came.

"Sahib," he said, "I've just had a baby boy, andthe Yibir has come. I have not a rupee in the house: will you lend me four, please?"

Now, thanks to the cook episode I was in a suspicious mood and not inclined to part with four silver rupees without proper investigation, so I called Mahomed the interpreter at once, together with Buralli, who came with several other uninvited guests, to assist in providing me with the following truefacts. Even Buralli is prepared to take a divorce oath that they are true.

The first Yibir that ever was, was a sorcerer, and used to say there was nothing God would not do for him, nor enable him to do. He lived ever so long ago, in the time of Sheikh Ishaak, a noble Arab who fled to Somaliland from Mecca six hundred years ago, and who is the founder of one of the most powerful Somal divisions. The Yibir did so many wonderful things that the Sheikh sent for him to come to a small hill between Berbera and Hargeisa, but nearer to Hargeisa than Berbera, and there the two men met.

Said Sheikh Ishaak to the Yibir, "Is this true, all I hear concerning you, that there is nothing you cannot do?"

"It is true," said the Yibir.

"Now I am not disputing with you," said the Sheikh, "but I'd like to see a demonstration. Can you go through that hill?"

"I can," said the Yibir, and he went into the hill and came out on the other side.

The Sheikh was astounded, and said, "Let me see you do it again," and the obliging Yibir did it again.

The Sheikh thought and thought, and scratched his head, but could think of nothing better to say than, "Let me see you do it once more," and of course the Yibir, who was highly flattered by the impression he had made on such a great man as the Sheikh, went into the hill again, but, before he could get through, the Sheikh held up his hands to heaven and said quickly, "Oh God, don't let him come out."

And the Yibir never came out.

Now the Yibir had a son who came to the Sheikh and said, "What's this I hear about you and my father? Is it true?"

"It is quite true, my boy," said the Sheikh.

"Well now you have killed him, what about the compensation, dia, that is coming to me for his death?"

The Sheikh agreed the boy ought to receive some compensation, and further that as he had killed the sorcerer in the interests of the community the community ought to pay. So he decreed, this holy man, that whenever a Somal married he was to pay a skin to a Yibir as part of the dia due to that people for the killing of their ancestor. Further, whenevera male child was born its father was to pay another skin. Now in those days there was no money, that was why the Sheikh said the Yibirs were to be paid in skins, but nowadays it is more convenient to give them money. "Fourrupees—sixrupees, something like that."

So, when a baby boy is born a Yibir comes along with a long stick, which he balances on the back of his hand. Then the stick runs along his arm and balances on his shoulder. When the father of the baby sees this, he knows the man before him is a Yibir, without doubt, and he pays him, "four rupees—six rupees, something like that." After some incantations the Yibir goes to the bush and cuts some tiny sticks, which he sews up in a bit of skin. He is very particular as to the number of these sticks, they must be more than two and less than four, and when they are made up in the skin he hands them to the child's parents, who tie the package on baby's arm. It is called a "makran," and if any other Yibir come along the mother shows it to them and they know they will not get anything more forthatbaby. But if a new baby boy comes, and the parents cheat the Yibir out of his dues, something dreadful is bound to happen.

Now as Gulaid Abokr's wife has just presented him with a bouncing boy, and as Gulaid and all his friends have spent more this New Year than theycan afford, and are out of cash, and as, after a careful search, I find the cook has left me with four rupees in hand, it would be a pity if anything were to happen to the baby, so I lend the money.

Mahomed then confides a tremendous secret to me.

"I tell you, sir, what I am going to tell you now is a fact, and I am prepared to pass my oath on the Koran that it is true. This same Yibir came to my house last night and said, 'Let me tell you your luck!' I said, 'Good!' He told me to take a new loin cloth and four rupees from my box and accompany him to another house. I went with him, taking the articles, for I feared a trick. When we entered a house he said, 'Spread the cloth on the ground.' I spread it on the ground, and he said, 'Now put the four rupees on it.' I put them on.

"He then took a thread from the cloth I was wearing and rolled it into a ball, which he kept in the palm of his hand. He said, 'If your luck is good this thread will turn into a lock of human hair. If it is bad it will turn into a human eye.' I watched him very closely, for I still feared a trick. He closed his hand, opened it quickly, and, 'Wallahi,' the thread had turned into human hair. Then he picked up the new cloth and the four rupees saying, 'As your luck is good this is my commission.' Now what do you think of that, sir?"

"I think, Mahomed," said I, "that there are as indifferent rascals, and just as big fools, in Somaliland as any other part of the world."

This morning I passed Gulaid Abokr's slim young wife, and noticed the baby she carried on her back was wearing a neat new "makran" on his arm. Said I to myself, "I wonder who pays the Yibir his fee for that makran—baby's father or I? I have my doubts." But baby's mother looked so happy, and smiled so sweetly, that I'll forgive Gulaid Abokr if he never pays me back.

The trip to the island—Fishing—Frenchmen, Greeks and Chinamen—Sharks and bêche-de-mer—El Kori.

"Is the boat ready, Buralli?" I ask the Somal sub-inspector of police.

"Ha! Sahib, it is ready."

"Who are coming with me?"

"A sergeant of the water police, two boatmen, your orderly, your cook, your servant, and the Arab Syyed. I am sending the riding camels to El Kori to-night and they will await you there in the morning. You can cross from the island, where the Chinamen are, to the mainland near El Kori in half an hour."

"Thank you, Buralli. Good-bye!"

"Salaam, Sahib!"

Half an hour later we are all aboard, bound for the island near the French Somaliland border, where a party of Chinamen are collecting bêche-de-mer and shark's fins. With her nose pointing North of West, her dhow-rigged sail bellying to the fresh north-east breeze, the little government boat is soon making her seven knots. Syyed, the Arab,has brought lines and hooks and is busy adjusting the bait. A small fish, a little bigger than a sardine, is attached to the hook at a special angle, so that it will spin as it glides over the water. Syyed, who works with the assurance of a past master of his art, binds the bait with a piece of palm-grass as a finishing touch. There is a twist of his arm and the line is trailing far out to the stern, where it ends in a little silver streak on the surface of the blue water. The boat is small, the breeze is fresh, and the cook is feeling both afraid and unwell. He droops like a tired plant and all expression fades from his face until, with a sharp jerk of his line, Syyed begins to haul in. In a second he gives a cry of pain and almost drops the line: it has cut his finger to the bone. I grab in time to save the situation, and there is an exciting tussle. The line swings out left and back again right like a huge pendulum. I can feel it biting into the flesh of my hand, but haul away, and, with a swing, land a huge barracouta in the bottom of the boat. Then it is I learn that the cook, alarmed by Syyed's cry, and thinking the boat was going over, had attempted to jump overboard. A heavy blow on the head from the water police sergeant's fist had caused him to change his mind. My remarks on his foolishness soothed him back to his former state of lethargic misery. The bait is bent again, theline spins out, but nothing happens for some time. Syyed tells me of a fine box he hopes to sell me when we return to Zeila, and I am very interested, when whir-r-r-r goes the line. Syyed is not napping this time; he has the affair well in hand, but the line is all out, and he is making no headway.

"It cannot hold on much longer, Syyed, or something is going to break," I say, as I take a hand.

There is a sharp tussle and the line comes away. I watch Syyed hauling it in.

As soon as we can see we both ejaculate, "hook gone!"

"That was a whopper, Syyed."

"Yes, sir, a ray; they run to over three hundred pounds sometimes on this coast. The best way to get them is with a harpoon. One day I will take you off Sa'ad-d-din and show you sport."

We are running near an island now and the water is shallow, so the line is stowed away. Bump, bump, bump, we are aground. The men spring overboard and push her over a hundred yards of shallows and spring in as we reach the deep water. Syyed is making ready more bait when crash goes the bamboo yard and the sail collapses. It is lowered and freed as quickly as possible. Meanwhile I keep a stern eye on the cook, who informs me nothing in the world willinduce him to return in this boat on the morrow. A splint of sticks, evidently kept for such an emergency, makes a temporary repair of the broken bamboo, and a smaller sail is bent instead of the large one we have been using. No more fishing now; we anxiously watch the bamboo as the breeze stiffens, and we fairly fly through the water. At four-fifteen p.m. we are close to the Chinamen's island, just two and a quarter hours since leaving Zeila. It is a low sandy island, so narrow that I could almost throw a stone across it. From it, when the tide is out, it is possible to walk along a narrow winding riband of sand to the mainland.

As we come alongside the beach a dhow passes us a few yards away. It is from Jibouti, and a white man in the stern stands up to doff his cap. Syyed informs me he is a Greek fishing for a Frenchman who is camped on the island. Sure enough there is his camp, and a tall figure rises from a chair to give me a salute. Two Chinamen are waiting on the beach and ask me to drink tea, but, much as I dislike hurting their feelings, I cannot face the interior of their hovel, a construction of grass mats and driftwood. My own table is set up outside, and I drink their excellent tea and enjoy some very good cake. After that I talk for some little time before walking to the Frenchman's camp to pay my respects and satisfy my curiosity.They have a nice clean little encampment, in which I enjoy the drink so hospitably offered. The Frenchman informs me that he employs natives to net fish, and pays them by the pound for what they bring to him. He provides the nets, of which he shows me a wonderful collection, ranging from drag nets imported from Marseilles to the African circular throwing net. A sporting little affair this latter. They cut up the fish—nearly all sharks—into strips, which they cover with salt for twenty-four hours, then wash in the sea and hang in the sun to dry. The shark skins, fins, and tails are saved. The venture is as yet unproved, and the Frenchman informed me he hoped to find a market for the bulk of his dried shark's flesh at Zanzibar. I am doubtful if he will. Their catch to-day, they tell me, consisted of one hundred and thirty sharks. My face must have betrayed my inward doubt of this statement for I was conducted to a heap of tails and fins fresh enough to convince me of its truth.

It is getting dark and we sit down and chat.

"It is peaceful, Monsieur," said the tall Frenchman. "It is difficult to believe there is so much unrest in the world when one sits here at eventide."

I look round. Two natives are wading through the shallow water towards our island, and as they come they stop occasionally to throw the circularnets they carry. They are making a good haul. Syyed is talking to the Chinamen, a hundred yards away; my servant and orderly are erecting my camp bed. A few fishermen are kneeling round camp fires cooking their evening meal. I can see all over the tiny island. Along the coast a red light, and then a white, becomes visible as the darkness closes quickly round us.

That is Jibouti. Perhaps there is a liner lying in the harbour, homeward bound, full of passengers going to Europe. There will be ladies and little children, and now it is nearly dinner-time. How far away and unreal it all seems. There is scarcely a sound. My companion is very silent. I am aroused from my reverie by the splash, splash, splosh, splosh in the water of small fish trying to escape from some monster who seeks his evening meal.

"You have not answered my question, Monsieur," says the tall Frenchman. "It is peaceful here?"

"Pardon," I reply, "I did not realise it was a question, but even here there is war."

"How? Where?"

"In the waters!"

"True, and never ending war!"

"Were you fighting in France, Monsieur?"

"Yes!"

"Well, doubtless you find it peaceful here."

Again a very long silence, then, "Monsieur, my companion has just returned from Jibouti. Have you heard any news?"

"No! my European news is seventeen days old. What is it?"

Later I sit down to dinner, and, as I must be up betimes, I call the Chinamen to ask some questions concerning their work.

"You are collecting bêche-de-mer and shark fins?"

"We were, but our master has gone to China, and there are only two of us left; until he returns we have ceased work."

"So I cannot see you at work in the morning."

"No! we are not working now."

I am bitterly disappointed as I have come purposely to see them catching and preparing the bêche-de-mer for market, but I turn in determined to find out all I possibly can, under the circumstances, on the morrow.

Next morning I woke up to find Syyed and an Arab standing near my bed with lines out. With prawns for bait they were having splendid sport. The waters were swarming with fish.

Dressing hurriedly I saw the first of the Frenchman's boats coming in with a load of fish, and I ran along to meet it. Over seventy sharks was thehaul, but the biggest one was not more than three feet long. There were very few other fish, and they were mostly gurram. There was some talk between my men and the fishermen.

"This," said the water police sergeant, picking up a shark eighteen inches long, "is a Sheiba (old man), he will not grow another inch!"

"Certainly not, he is dead," I remark.

"I mean he is full grown," replied the sergeant.

The fishermen said that was a fact.

"This," said someone else, picking up a shark with a head like a plane, on the sides of which projected his eyes, "is a youngster, and of all the sharks he is the worst kind."

In the centre of his flat head (and underneath) was his mouth, and it was easy to understand that he must, as the men explained, turn on his back to seize his prey.

For a solid half-hour I listened to yarns that would have given any writer of sporting fiction valuable material to work on, yet I believe they were in the main true. There was one of a pearl diver, attacked by one of these flat-headed monsters, which seized him by the face. How he struck out wildly with a pearl oyster he was holding in his hand, and by sheer good luck hit the fish on the eye, causing it to let go. Like a flash he struck out for the surface and was pulled out, just in time, by his mates in theboat. Not one gruesome detail was omitted, from the first attack to the ending, when the doctor sewed up the wounds. I heard of fights with sword fish caught up in nets. How the men's faces showed their hatred of these brutes that throw their cruel swords about in their struggles to get free, and woe betide the obstacle of flesh and blood that stops a blow. When they find a sword fish in the net the fishermen drop a noose over his sword and, hauling him close against the boat, beat him with poles until there is no fight left in him, when they haul him aboard and cut off his head.

But breakfast is ready and the sun comes up like a great ball of molten metal to remind me that the day will be too hot to allow of any waste of the precious morning hours.

Breakfast over a Chinaman produces a specimen of the sea slug (bêche-de-mer) in which I am so interested. It might quite easily be a banana turning black from over ripeness, judged from appearances at least. The skin appears to be rough, but is not exceptionally so to the touch. The Chinaman conducts me to a furnace of plastered mud in which is set a flat-bottomed pan which might once have been a low bath of the kind used in bedrooms. In this pan, he explains, the fresh slugs are roasted before being buried in the sand for twenty-four hours. They are then washed in thesea, roasted again, and finally hung out in the sun to dry. When quite dry they are shipped by dhow to Aden; thence to China by steamship. Fortunately, he had a few specimens of the dried slugs, and again they might quite easily have been mistaken for dried bananas.

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