|
CHAPTER EIGHT
|
|
in which Fooks gets his deserts, then counts crocodiles
and ends by demonstrating outstanding agricultural talent
|
Back on the Rage I gave Fooks good dressing down.
"Let me hear no more of these 'keepsakes' of yours! Is that clear?"
Well, Fooks was contrite and promised to behave. The bruise eventually
healed and we went sailing up the Nile.
At last there could be no doubt that we were in Africa.
All about us were lotuses and papyruses, with herds of antelopes grazing
along the shores and lions dozing languorously here and there. Hyppopotamuses
were snorting in the water and tortoises warming themselves in the sun.
It was better than a zoo.
Lom and Fooks were as delighted as little children, teasing crocodiles
with sticks and laughing their heads off, whereas I had my hands full
steering and looking for a likely village to stop at for the night.
As you must surely realise, young man, I had not undertaken that journey
along the Nile merely out of idle curiosity. The initial plan of my cruise
was to cross the Atlantic and emerge into the Pacific by way of the Panama
Canal.
The herrings had made it necessary to change my plans. Now we were facing
a tough passage across the Indian Ocean. Out in the ocean, you know, there
are no shops or stalls available. Once you run out of provisions, you
stay without. Well, being a provident and frugal person, I decided to
stock up for the cruise in Egypt.
At last I caught sight of a village which looked clean and inviting. I
moored the yacht at the bank and all three of us made for the market.
The populace was very friendly and the prices quite reasonable. We bought
a lot of excellent foodstuffs: a a couple of pickled elephant trunks,
a box of ostrich eggs, lots of dates, sago, cinnamon, cloves and other
spices.
We loaded our purchases, I raised the flag and was just about to shove
off when Lom reported that Fooks was missing again. How d'you like that?
I was on the point of going without Fooks, but couldn't bring myself to
abandon him like that. Of course he had those thieving habits of his,
but he tried hard and had a heart of gold. Left on his own in Egypt, where
the people are trusting and there was nobody to hold him in check, with
temptations at every step, he was sure to go wrong and end up in prison.
I decided to try and rescue him. We went back to the village and at its
edge saw a crowd and heard laughter and screams.
Lom and I raced up and what did we see? Fooks had landed himself in a
proper fix. He was crouching on the ground, his head all but buried in
the sand, covering himself with his hat, and a huge ostrich was jabbing
at bis hind quarters with his beak, and kicking him like a football. The
audience was encouraging the bird with shouts and laughter and clapping
like in a circus. I yelled at the ostrich, and he sat down in fright and
also hid his head in the sand. Now there were two of them.
I grabbed Fooks by his collar, gave him a good shake, set him on his feet
and questioned him sternly. It appeared that he had again yielded to temptation,
despite the promise he had given me. He saw an ostrich strolling at large,
crept up to him and pulled a feather out of his tail-again as a "keepsake".
Well, the ostrich, for all that it is by nature a peaceable bird, could
not leave such an outrage unpunished.
Fooks showed me the feather too. I wondered whether I should give it back
to the ostrich, but decided against it. In the first place, the ostrich
had no need of it and would grow a new one, in the second, it had already
got even with Fooks, having pulled out a biggish patch from his pants.
We said goodbye to the hilarious crowd, returned to the yacht, set sail
and made our way back, down the Nile. We reached the sea without any misadventure
and sailed east along the shore. We were heading for the Red Sea and the
Suez Canal.
We entered the canal early in the morning. Generally pilots are invited
to guide ships along the canal, but I had been there before, know every
little stone in the bottom and so decided to dispense with the pilot.
On we sailed, Fooks on the lookout, I steering and Lom cooking breakfast
in the galley. Lom was an excellent cook by the way, and would produce
dishes to tempt the dead. That day too... Early in the morning Lom put
on an apron, rolled up his sleeves and lighted the stove.
I glanced in as I passed, and recoiled: it was hot enough outside, and
in the galley it was like a smithy with bellows working. Flames were leaping,
pans bubbling, a chicken getting beautifully browned-and the aroma was
simply out of this world. Lom was a past master at sauces and gravies,
you know. The delicious smell attracted all living creatures from along
the Suez Canal.. who lined the banks and stood licking their chops. So
we had an excellent chance to study the local fauna. And let me tell you,
it is really something. On the left stood tigers and boars from Arabia,
while on the African bank there were lions, elephants and rhinoceros.
A giraffe turned up, sniffed, and obviously decided our yacht was a floating
restaurant. So he followed us along the bank, craning his neck towards
us and dripping hungry saliva.
Just about then Lom got through with his cooking and laid the table for
three on the afterdeck, all in the best style, with a clean cloth, plates,
forks, knives, and such like. And can you imagine it?- when he emerged
from the galley with a tureen in his hands, if that long-necked ruminant
didn't go and poke his muzzle into the tureen. Lom yelled at him something
terrible, but the animal was immune to persuasion. He smacked his lips
and all but knocked the tureen out of Lom's hands. How d'you like that?
The canal was so narrow there was no getting away from him-you can't sail
over dry land, you know. A good cuff on the long neck might have been
effective; but I could not let go of the wheel-it's quite tricky, you
know, navigating a boat along the canal, while Fooks was so absorbed in
the fauna show he saw or heard nothing but the lions and the tigers. And
Lom's hands were occupied with the tureen. There was nothing for it but
for him to beat a hasty retreat.
"Back away. Lom!" I shouted.
"Aye, aye, sir," he said and began to back down the companion way.
But a giraffe has plenty of neck. His muzzle just followed Lom down into
the cabin. Lom pressed himself to the wall in the far corner, but the
giraffe could still reach him there.
 |
That won't do, I decided, we need our breakfast ourselves. So I risked leaving the helm for a second to slam the giraffe's neck with the door. And it worked, you know, much better than any vociferations. The giraffe stood firm, jerked his neck out and drew himself up. He was obviously offended and, in his frustration, snapped up and chewed the weather-cock.
I did not particularly mind that-I had a spare weather-cock, several of them in fact, and I prized the breakfast much more. And the giraffe saved his face, so to speak. To be sure, he had been thrown out on his ear, figuratively speaking, but at least he had got himself a snack. After all a weather -cock is quite a delicacy in that desert of theirs where there is little besides rocks to chew.
Well, we ate our breakfast with relish and sailed on.
Towards evening we passed Suez, and got caught in a dead calm for two days. We used the enforced idleness to have some rest, mend the sails, bowse the rigging down, and generally clean up. Then a fresh breeze started, we set sail and went out into the Red Sea. At first we sailed free, but towards evening the wind began to mount and we got quite a thrashing. A simoom came swirling from the Sakhara Desert. It became unbearably hot, there seemed to be no air to breathe and a great swell arose.
It got the better of Fooks, who held out for a while and then collapsed all of a sudden. He did not even manage to crawl to his bunk, but stretched out on deck, on the crate with provisions, groaning and fanning himself with the ostrich feather. He was a sorry sight, but we could do nothing to help him. Seasickness is not deadly, but it does not yield to treatment. Otherwise things looked quite lively.
The simoom actually played into our hands, driving the Rage along at a brisk pace. I watched the sea for a while, checked up the course, left Lom to steer and went to the cabin for a snooze. One of my build is better off on a night watch in a weather like this. Lom, now, was a hardy chap, he would be all right in the daytime too.
At night it became cooler, Lom went to sleep and I took up my post at the wheel.
Nights in those latitudes are amazingly beautiful. There was the moon swaying in the heavens like a lantern on a chain; there was the sea emitting a blue mysterious light, and after an hour of this fairy-tale business, all kinds of devilry start creeping into your head, things like the magic carpet, dragons, spirits and such like. So there I stood, lost to the world, and suddenly I heard Fooks muttering some kind of nonsense.
I listened. Well, it was no seasickness, it was downright raving. A touch of tropical fever, no less. I could hear him whispering: "A crocodile, sir, and another crocodile, and a third..."
I lashed the wheel, went down to the cabin, took a doze of quinine and went up again. Fooks meantime continued with Ms crocodile counting:
'Twenty-seven crocodiles, twenty-eight crocodiles, thirty crocodiles..."
"Enough, Fooks, stop counting crocodiles. Better take this," I said.
With these words I made a step forward, and stumbled against some living thing, fell and dropped the powder. Then somebody snapped at my fmger. Well that made me cry out. Lom heard me and rushed out on deck. But as soon as he took a few steps across the deck, he yelled wildly too.
Fooks meantime went on counting:
"Forty-five crocodiles ... fifty crocodiles..."
It made your flesh creep. But I took myself in hand, struck a match and in its light saw that the deck was literally crawling with crocodiles. New-born baby crocodiles, little creatures which were really quite harmless, but crocodiles nonetheless, not the most amiable of creatures.
Well, I made short shrift of the lot of them, picking up the mop and sweeping them into the home element without any more ado.
When I had cleared the deck of the reptiles somewhat, I started looking for the source of the invasion. They were crawling out of a chink in the crate which was supposed to hold ostrich eggs.
A mistake must have been made in the village, or else they had decided to play a joke on us and sold us crocodile eggs instead. What with the heat and Fooks lying on top of them, the baby crocodiles had hatched in a hurry.
Once the cause of the incident was established, it was easy to neutralise its effects. I did not even bother to unpack the crate-just laid a board leading from the chink to the gunwale, and along it the reptiles crawled one after another and flopped overboard all the way to Aden. We only opened the crate when the stream had ended and found nothing but egg-shells left. That's the kind of rum thing that can happen to you in the tropics.Having dealt with the crocodiles and restored order on board, I thought I could relax now. But no, fate had new trials in store for me.
We were sailing along the Eritrean coast. Lom was sleeping in the cabin, and Fooks was recuperating on the deck.
The swell had subsided, and all was peaceful. Suddenly, at the break of dawn, I heard a blood-curdling yell out in the sea: "Help!"
"Man overboard!" I shouted. "All hands on deck! Hard over helm! Ready about!"
The crew was at action stations within seconds. Life-belts, buoys and rope ends were tossed into the water, and several minutes later a very wet man was fished out of the sea and taken on board. He wore the stripes of an Italian N.C.O. and looked pretty bedraggled. Still, he shook himself like a dog, cleared his throat and saluted:
"Sergeant Julio Banditto at your service, sir."
At my service indeed!
"Thank your lucky stars, Sergeant," I told him, "and tell me what has happened to you and what I am supposed to do with you."
"I was swept off the beach by the simoom while under the influence. I beg you, Captain, to put me ashore anywhere on Italian territory."
"My dear man," I retorted, "aren't you asking too much? Do you know how far your Italy is from here?"
"Italy is everywhere," the sergeant interrupted me.
"Here - " pointing right, "and here-" pointing left. "All the world is Italy."
What was the sense of arguing with one so clearly under the influence of alcohol still? All the more so that in those years thugs like him had taken the upper hand in Italy and were really planning to lay their hands on the entire world or at least a large chunk of it. They had put some of their plans into execution too: the Italian boot ruled supreme in Abyssinia, Somalia and Eritrea. These ruffians never dreamed that before very long, for aiming so high with those boots of his, their chief would be strung up boots upwards. Still, in those years he was still strutting about head upwards, trampling other peoples' soil underfoot.
But I refrained from arguing with our unasked guest, resolving to get rid of him as soon as possible.
"Very well," I said, "Where exactly would you prefer to be beached?"
"What about those rocks over there?" he said.
Without suspecting a thing, I made for the rocky bit of coast, drew up and had the gangway ready for him to go ashore. At this point my sergeant saluted me again and said:
"Thank you kindly, Captain. Now will you please accompany me ashore?"
"Never mind the thanks, my man," I replied. "I have no time to waste. Just be off with you."
"Is that so?" he asked, produced a whistle and blew into it hard. The next moment a band of cutthroats descended on us from behind the rocks, and before I could collect my wits, my crew, captain included, were handcuffed and marched off.
Well, they led us over a desert terrain, with nothing but rocks and arid soil around. Soon we reached a military camp.
They left us outside and went in to report to their commander. Soon a colonel appeared with a plateful of macaroni in his hands.
"Aha," he said eating the macaroni all the while. "Invading Italian territory, aren't you? Confiscate the boat, set the prisoners to field work, apprise Rome of the incident. Let them decide their fate."
So we were driven to do field work. A day's toil in the scorching sun sapped all our strength. It did not occur to anybody to give us a meal. The only thing we had to eat was a handful of oats Fooks managed to steal from a mule's mouthbag.
In the evening Sergeant Julio came, bringing a plateful of macaroni from his own ration by way of thanks for having saved his life.
A handout, to be sure, but beggars can't be choosers. I divided the macaroni into three equal shares and started on mine. Lom, who never suffered from lack of appetite, wolfed his portion in a second. But Fooks gave his macaroni a sniff and made a face.
"Is this macaroni?" he said. "It's a sorry ersatz, that's what it is. Really, I am surprised at you. Living in such beneficent climate and eating macaroni that don't deserve the name, made of maize of all things. Why, you could set up a macaroni plantation that would yield enough for all of Italy. Go tell your colonel that I am prepared to sow an experimental lot for you. I have some seedlings on board the yacht."
I felt my eyes popping out - fancy spinning so outrageous a yam! But that stupid oaf Julio was quite taken in and really ran off in search of his colonel. And imagine - they made Fooks our elder, allotted him a plot, brought a sack of macaroni from the Rage and planted sentries all round. The colonel came to admonish us personally.
"There is your experimental plot," he said, "but mind you don't attempt any hocus-pocus with me. I'll have you skinned alive if you get up to any tricks"
I could see he would be as good as his word and tried to talk Fooks out of his madcap venture: "Back out before it's too late," I whispered to him. "You'll get us all into trouble."
But Fooks just jerked a shoulder.
"Don't you worry. Captain, it will be okay. Mum's the word"
Well, then we dug up the beds, Fooks broke the macaroni into little pieces, planted them and we watered them every day for the sentries to see. And what do you think?! In three days they sprouted! Little green shoots appeared and burgeoned.
 |
Just you wait: soon they'll be a man's height, then you mow them down, throw the leaves to the cattle and the stems you break up and chuck into the pan. Now that is what I call macaroni!"
The Italians believed him. More than that, I believed him. How could you have any doubts when the shoots are there for all to see. The colonel asked Fooks, "Can we have a whole field planted?"
"Why not, of course you can," Fooks replied. "There aren't enough seedlings though. And if we sow your kind, they have to be watered with alcohol, or they would not sprout."
"Very well, I'll tell my chaps, they have enough alcohol and to spare." The next day they brought all the macaroni they had, beat them with flails to break them up, sowed them, and set about watering them from a big tank of alcohol. But the soldiers who did the watering were sorry to see the alcohol go down the drain, so to speak, and took large swigs all the time.
Towards evening the colonel arrived to supervise the operation, tossed off a glassful of the watering fluid himself, and the camp went on a proper bender. There were songs first, then quarrels began to flare up, fighting broke out. And when the moon rose, the camp subsided into a drunken stupor, the air reverberating with mighty snores. That was what we had been waiting for. We made our way to the seashore, boarded our Rage, set sail and flew the coop.
"You ought to have been an agronomist, Fooks," I said. "How did you make those macaroni sprout? It's nothing short of a miracle."
"Sleight of hand, Captain," he replied. "I had some oats left in my pocket. And with oats added even cigarette-stubs will sprout."
So that was the explanation. Anyway, we got away safely. The next day we rounded the cape of Guardafui and headed south.
