Trade Wind (63 page)

Aunt Abby appeared to derive considerable comfort from this sage observation, but Hero could recall nothing in the least child-like in the harsh, hawk-faces of the Arab seamen whom she had seen in the streets that morning. Or, for that matter, in the frightened and apprehensive ones of the Banyans, Somalis, negroes and Arabs whom she and Clay had passed on the unmade roads beyond the city. But there was no point in upsetting her aunt by saying so; and in any case, the pirates had never yet molested any member of the small white community on Zanzibar, so they themselves had nothing to fear.

A month or two ago such a reflection would not have occurred to Hero; or if it had, would have been indignantly dismissed as being both selfish and callous. But the same apathy that she blamed on the climate would seem to have been slyly at work undermining her capacity for indignation, because she discovered with an odd sense of surprise that she could not feel over-much anxiety on behalf of the Sultan’s subjects, who greatly outnumbered the pirates and ought to have enough gumption not to put up with such nonsense. She had been far more anxious over the fate of the unmentionable Captain Frost’s small daughter, Amrah; though why she should have troubled herself over the little creature she would have been at a loss to explain.

Fattûma had brought her some garbled story about the child’s mother dying suddenly and under suspicious circumstances, and Hero knew that the
Virago
was not in port. It was no concern of hers, and every instinct revolted against having anything further to do with that house or with anyone in it. But somehow she could not get the thought of the lonely child out of her head. With its mother dead and its father absent, and no one but the servants to look after it, its situation seemed to her a tragic one, and though she knew that Clay would never have permitted such a thing had he known, she had paid another visit to The Dolphins’ House.

Her conscience had troubled her a little, for she did not like having secrets from Clay. But she had at least satisfied herself that the child was being well cared for; and she had not repeated the visit, for though Amrah had greeted her appearance with delight, the servants had been markedly uncommunicative and had professed not to understand her when she had asked questions about the death of the child’s mother. Hero hoped that this did not mean that the woman had died of some infectious disease, because if so Amrah ought to be removed at once, and she herself might well endanger everyone in her aunt’s house by carrying the contagion back with her; but Fattûma had assured her that it had been an accident. All the same, thought Hero, someone really should take charge of that child, and it was too bad that…

“Hero, you are not listening!” said Olivia with mock severity. “It is your wedding gown we are discussing!”

“I’m sorry,” said Hero hastily, waking with a start to the fact that the pirates had been abandoned in favour of the more interesting topic of fashion.

During the next twenty minutes she did her best to take a proper interest in the question of pearl clusters and pagoda sleeves, but only to discover, with an uneasy sense of guilt, that such things as the cut and style of her wedding-dress, and what colours would best suit Cressy as her bridesmaid and Olivia as Matron-of-Honour, seemed of much greater interest to others than they were to herself, though she knew that by rights she should be enthralled by them. The fact that she could not feel anything more than a vague indifference, and that it did not seem to matter in the least to her whether she wore silk or muslin for the occasion, or decided in favour of a veil or a bonnet, did not mean, she hastened to assure herself, that she did not wish to marry Clay, because of course she did! But there was plenty of time—days, weeks, months of time—before the “Long Rains’ and the end of the hot weather would bring her to her wedding day, and she did not have to think too much about it yet. For the moment it was enough to sit back and relax, and to enjoy Clay’s devotion, and endure the heat.

It was sometimes difficult to do the latter; but as for Clay she could not, she decided, have made a better choice of a husband, for although he was unfailingly attentive and charming, she was relieved to find that he did not consider that their betrothal entitled him to indulge in embarrassing displays of affection, for she knew that she could not have borne to be kissed and embraced as a matter of right—if at all. She had always had an instinctive shrinking from such demonstrations, and it was both comforting and reassuring to find that her future husband shared her tastes and was not one of those romantic gentlemen (so frequently met with between the covers of novels), who were for ever clasping their sweethearts to their manly chests and smothering them with passionate kisses.

Clay’s occasional kisses savoured more of affection and respect than of passion, and he confined himself, correctly, to bestowing them on her hand or her cheek rather than her lips. Which augured well for their future happiness, and Hero was thankful that both she and Clayton were rational, level-headed and thoughtful people who put first things first. Not like poor silly little Cressy, who provided a sad illustration of the unwisdom of permitting emotion to take precedence over good sense!

Cressy had obviously been foolish enough to fall in love with Daniel Larrimore, without pausing to consider that once the first flush of romance had faded, she would be certain to discover that an English naval officer not only had little in common with her, but was unlikely to be able to offer her anything but an unsettled and uncomfortable life, full of separations and temporary lodgings in outlandish ports. Hero was sincerely Sony for her young cousin, but looking at her now as she sat listening to Olivia’s chatter, she could not help thinking it an excellent thing that the romance had not prospered. And that it would be an even better thing if the
Daffodil
were not to return to Zanzibar until after the Hollises had left!

She was not to know that less than twenty-four hours later she would have given much to see the
Daffodil
riding at anchor in the harbour, and Dan Larrimore and his bluejackets marching through the town. For dawn had brought the dhows. The dark, high-prowed ships that were little different from those that sailed along the coasts of Africa seven centuries before the birth of Christ, to trade in slaves and ivory and gold from fabled Ophir.

They swooped down upon the Island, their sails curved like the crescent moon that is the emblem of Islam, and their savage crews beating drums and flying the green flag of a Faith that was younger than their ships: sweeping in on the wind like a great flock of carrion birds; fierce, predatory and ruthless, hungry for flesh. Filling the harbour with a tossing forest of masts, and the streets with swaggering, hawk-nosed men who brandished swords and carried sharp-edged daggers in the folds of their waistcloths.

“They won’t do us any harm,” said Nathaniel Hollis, repeating his wife’s words of the previous day. “They know better than to molest any white folk.”

But this time it seemed that he was wrong, and that they did not know better.

“I don’t understand it,” fumed Colonel Edwards, calling on his colleague two days later. “This is unprecedented.
Outrageous!
Two of my servants have been injured and several Europeans attacked in broad daylight on the streets. I don’t know what has got into these ruffians, and I think it would be advisable for us all to keep within doors until the situation is brought under control. I have protested most strongly to His Highness and demanded a guard of Baluchis to protect my Consulate. I suggest that you do the same.”

“Not me,” declared Mr Hollis firmly. “I don’t believe in asking for trouble, and if you’ll forgive me for saying so, it’s my belief that a guard at the door would be taken as an admission that I was afraid of being attacked—which I am not. They’ve got no quarrel with us, and I don’t intend to sell them the idea that they have!”

Colonel Edwards’s leathery face reddened indignantly at what he took to be a politely phrased reflection upon his own courage, but he controlled himself with an effort, and remarking frostily that for his part he had always considered that there was much to be said for the old adage that Discretion was the better part of Valour, took his leave and returned to his own Consulate in a state of considerable perturbation.

The Colonel had always looked upon the yearly arrival of these piratical hordes of northern Arabs as a recurring disease that was quite as unpleasant, and not infrequently as fatal to the Sultan’s subjects, as the plague; and though it never failed to horrify and infuriate him, he had come to accept it as a necessary evil that only time and the onward march of civilization could cure. But he was sorry now that he had not requested that the
Daffodil
of some other naval vessel remain in the vicinity, because this year there was an ominous difference in the attitude of the cut-throat crews who poured out of the dark, rakish hulks of the dhows and invaded every street and alleyway of the city.

They had always been numerous and insolent, but now both their numbers and their effrontery had increased beyond all bounds, and in contrast to other years their attitude towards the European community appeared to be one of open hostility. Colonel Edwards did not like it at all: or understand it, for it seemed to him that there was something behind it: a reason and a plan, and not mere arrogance and braggadocio or mischief for the love of mischief.

It was towards dusk of that same day that he saw a familiar shape against the green of the evening sky and knew that the
Virago
was back. And wondered why? Emory Frost had always been careful to avoid the Island during the period of the annual slave raids, and it was rumoured that he paid’ protection money’ to the pirate traders for the safety of his house and his servants. It was curious, thought Colonel Edwards, that he should have elected to return this year; but perhaps he too was aware of a different feeling among the invading horde, and feared that even locked doors and barred windows might not be sufficient to protect his property on this occasion. Or possibly the death of that slave-girl (what was her name?—Zara? Zorah?) had brought him back, for it seemed that there was a child, and it was reasonable to suppose that even such a pernicious renegade as Rory Frost of the
Virago
possessed some parental feelings for his offspring.

Colonel Edwards had heard of the woman’s death through his spy, Feruz Ali, whose business it was to know all the gossip of the city. Feruz had added an absurd story to the effect that she had been abducted by some European and subsequently killed herself, but that was obviously just another bazaar rumour arising out of the anti-European feeling that had gripped the town following the Seyyida Salmé‘s elopement with young Ruete—an episode, now that he came to think of it, that might also account for the present hostility of the pirates.

The Colonel paid another visit to the Palace on the following morning, and did not enjoy the experience. It had actually looked at one time as though his escort of a dozen armed Baluchis was not going to prove sufficient to protect his person from manhandling by the mob, who yelled insults at him as he passed and brandished swords and old-fashioned matchlocks in a threatening manner. The Sultan too had been in a difficult mood, though for once he seemed impervious to the dangers of the situation and betrayed none of the trembling agitation of former years. Or indeed, any readiness to bribe the raiders to cease their depredations and withdraw.

“It is Fate,” said the Sultan airily. “I can do nothing. But since it is written in the Sura of the Djinn:
No man shall live to laugh at his own evil
, these sons of dogs will surely reap the reward of their wickedness and pass not to Paradise but to Jehanum. We must content ourselves with that.”

This cheerful indifference and total lack of alarm puzzled the Colonel even more than the behaviour of the raiders, and he returned to his Consulate with the feeling that he had missed a clue somewhere. An obvious clue that should not have escaped his notice had he been more alert and more closely in touch with the feeling in the city. Perhaps he was getting too old for the work; too tired and run down, and too disheartened. It was high time he retired and let a younger and more optimistic man take his place.

Walking back through the mob of snarling, hostile strangers who filled the narrow streets, he caught sight of the
Virago
’s English Captain in close converse with a gaunt, grey-faced Arab who wore a black
jubbah
liberally and splendidly embroidered with gold, and who was, so one of his Baluchi guard informed him, Sheikh Omar-bin-Omar, an associate, in some sort, of the northern pirates.

It was noticeable that the Captain, despite his blond hair and the fact that he was wearing European dress, was not included in the crowd’s anti-European hostility, but appeared to be treated as one of them, and Colonel Edwards thought disgustedly that it was all of a piece: there was, after all, little to choose between an Arab pirate and a renegade English slaver, and of the two he preferred the pirate. But later that afternoon he had sent for Emory Frost, because two European employees of trading firms and a young secretary from the French Consulate had been severely injured by the raiders, the houses of three rich and influential Zanzibar merchants (two of them Banyans holding British-Indian nationality) had been broken into and looted of hidden valuables, and Feruz had relayed a curious and disturbing rumour that he had picked up in the bazaars…

It went against the grain to hold any communication whatever with Captain Frost, and Colonel Edwards was inclined to doubt whether Frost would, in fact, agree to talk to him. He suspected that his summons would be refused if not ignored, and was prepared if necessary to send a squad of Baluchis to bring the man to his office by force. Or if that proved impracticable, to go as far as calling at The Dolphins’ House himself But in the event neither action proved necessary, for within an hour of his letter being despatched, Captain Emory Frost, accompanied by a wizened little Englishman and a tall, hatchet-faced Arab, presented himself at the British Consulate.