Rawhide Robinson Rides a Dromedary

by Rod Miller

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  * * *

  Whitman Fitzgerald thumbed through accumulated messages, memos, and correspondence. Paper shuffling was the bane of his diplomatic existence and one he routinely avoided. As a result, stacked sheets teetered, tottered, tipped and occasionally toppled atop his desk.

  But somewhere among the heaps was a dispatch from the War Department in far-off Washington outlining details of his assignment to assist Major Benjamin Wayne of the United States Army in the acquisition of camels for shipment back to the States aboard the USS Cordwood, a naval supply ship under the command of Captain Howard Clemmons.

  Not that he had been ignoring the assignment. Anything but. Indeed, the diplomat had pursued it with a passion, as it represented a respite from his usual duties, which were, he had long since realized, mundane. Or did he mean humdrum? Monotonous, perhaps? Prosaic, pedestrian? Tedious? Tiresome?

  Whatever label one chose to attach to the attaché’s responsibilities, they were far from exciting. Fitzgerald experienced none of the intrigue, the excitement, the dash and daring, the negotiation and mediation he anticipated when joining the diplomatic corps those many years ago. Instead, here he was assigned to Smyrna. Once an important crossroads in the sprawling Ottoman Empire, a busy seaport linking east to west, Smyrna, like the empire of which it was a part, was past its prime. Much like himself, Fitzgerald realized.

  Still, it was a busy place, in terms of trade if not international diplomacy. Its markets were abuzz with business—including the buying and selling of camels. Beasts from throughout the Levant found their way there—whether arriving solely as items of commerce, or in caravans and sold off along with the trade goods they carried. Both dromedaries and Bactrians frequented the sale rings and auction blocks and anyone in need of a camel was easily accommodated.

  But assembling a herd suitable for use by the United States Army was no simple task. Fitzgerald, unlike most everyone else in government service aware of the scheme, did not scoff at its prospects. His time at various locations in Levantine cities left him with an appreciation for the abilities of the camel. If properly chosen, trained, and handled, he had no doubt the ungainly beasts of burden would serve the intended purpose of packing supplies across the Southwestern deserts of North America with the same flawless performance they provided in this part of the world.

  “Aha!” With the desired document in hand, he dashed from his cluttered closet of an office and hustled off to the corner café to meet his friend Hayri. The Turk’s very name—Hayri—meant “helpful man,” and it was a moniker well chosen. While yet a young man, Hayri’s long years of experience with camels suited him to the task of filling the Army’s order.

  “I have it!” Fitzgerald said, waving the paper overhead as he hurried across the street and took a seat at Hayri’s table. A waiter arrived at the table as soon as the attaché, placing a cup of rich, sweet coffee before him.

  “Teşekkür ederim,” Fitzgerald said.

  “Despite your years among we Turks, your accent remains atrocious,” Hayri said with a smile. “A simple ‘thank you’ in English would be more easily understood than your attempt at Turkish.”

  Fitzgerald smiled. “Elementary diplomacy,” he said. “ ‘Make every attempt to honor local culture wherever assigned, including obtaining a facility with the language sufficient for everyday use,’ I believe is how our government puts it in the handbook.”

  “My friend, there is wisdom in what your government advises. But ‘facility with the language’ seems beyond your grasp.” Again, the Turk’s face widened in a smile. “It can be said that your abuse of our tongue has the opposite effect of what your handbook anticipates.”

  Smoothing the paper on the table before him, Fitzgerald skimmed its contents. “Between thirty and forty,” he said. “That’s how many camels the War Department thinks they will need. The actual count will be contingent on how many animals the ship can accommodate.” He patted his suit jacket over the outside and inside pockets in an attempt to locate the telegram, then reached under the lapel to pull it from the inside pocket. With a snap of the wrist, the diplomat unfolded the sheet and said, “Says here the Cordwood has sailed from Palermo. We’ve got less than a week.”

  “It will be no problem, my friend. I have already identified more than twenty animals. We can easily fill out the remainder of the order in a matter of days.”

  “What about handlers?”

  “That has proven more of a challenge. Many of the most accomplished are reluctant to leave our civilized homeland for the wilds of the American West.”

  “Uncle Hayri—” The soft voice came from a young girl crouched on the sidewalk not far from the table. Fitzgerald had not associated her with Hayri, who he knew to be a bachelor. The girl looked to be in her thirteenth or fourteenth year (the slip of a girl, in truth, was nearly sixteen); not yet a young woman but not far from it. Wide eyes in a lovely face framed by a head scarf, glistened with enthusiasm. “I have said to you that I will go.”

  “And I have said ‘no’ young lady. Many times. It is not to be.”

  “But, Uncle! You know that I know camels better than most men! I have lived among them since birth. I was practically suckled on camel milk.”

  “A sailing ship is no place for a young girl. And should you survive the perilous journey, living among soldiers and Indians and cowboys and other savages in the Wild West of America is no life for you.”

  “There are savages enough in our own country!” the girl hissed through tight lips. She grasped the tail of her scarf and flung it over her shoulder as she turned away.

  Fitzgerald said, “And who might that be?”

  “She is my niece. The daughter of my sister. She and her husband met with an unfortunate accident and are no longer among us. The girl is in my care—a temporary arrangement, until a more suitable accommodation can be made.”

  “What happened to her parents?”

  Hayri leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I called it an accident, but it was not. What she said about camels is true. Her father was a trader, and ran caravans to far countries. His wife, my sister, and the girl accompanied him on every journey. As they embarked on their most recent journey, the caravan was set upon by thieves at their first stopping place. All were killed except Huri. Her mother hid her under a bush before she, herself, was ravaged and killed in a most savage manner. Huri witnessed things no girl should see.”

  “Huri? That is her name?”

  “Yes. Huri. It means ‘angel’ in our language.”

  “Huri. Hayri. Her name is much like your own.”

  The Turk laughed. “Only when spoken by one whose accent is as atrocious as your own.”

  A shadow fell across the table. Fitzgerald looked into the sun to see the silhouette of a pear-shaped man. Beside him, but a step behind, stood a giant of a man who showed little of his face through a thick, coarse beard. Huri crouched even lower. Hayri scraped his chair across the patio’s paving stones, sliding it away from the glare of the sun.

  “Hasan,” he said, with no hint of greeting in his voice. “What brings you here?”

  “It is with the American I wish to speak.”

  Hayri, with raised eyebrows, raised a palm and gestured toward the diplomat. Fitzgerald nodded.

  “At the markets, there is word that you are acquiring camels. A significant number of them, I am told.”

  Fitzgerald nodded.

  “I am a trader. I deal in many goods and services. Including camels.”

  “Yes?”

  “I can supply all the animals you need. Superior creatures, all. And at a fair price.”

  With a nod across the table, Fitzgerald said, “I appreciate your interest—Hasan, is it?—but Hayri here is already at work filling the contract.”

  Hasan laughed. “You have made a poor decision, sir. This man knows nothing of camels. I can assure you that he will provide only inferior animals.”

  Again, Hayri’s chair scraped
across the stones, this time as he stood. The chair tipped over with a clatter. The huge man stepped forward. Hasan laid a hand on his chest and said, “Not now, Balaban. Not now.” He looked at the American. “Remember my offer, Mr. Fitzgerald.” His eyes shifted toward Hayri and narrowed in a wicked glare. “And my warning.” The fat man and the giant walked away.

  “Who on earth was that?”

  Hayri righted his chair and sat. “Hasan is nothing but trouble. He intimidates and bullies his way into every commercial transaction he hears about. And he hears about most of them, through a network of spies and informants who haunt the markets. To say he is less than honest are the kindest words with which I can describe his way of doing business.”

  “And the other?”

  “Balaban. He is Hasan’s protector, as well as enforcer. His name means ‘giant’ and you can see he is well suited to it. But the evil inside the man far surpasses his body in size.”

  Throughout the altercation, Huri crouched ever lower, as if trying to melt away into the stone pavement. Her eyes glistened with tears that would not fall.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  * * *

  Despite hints of an Aegean Sea breeze sifting through the portholes in Captain Clemmons’s office aboard the USS Cordwood, the room was close. Suffocating smoke from the captain’s pipe irritated Rawhide Robinson’s eyes and prompted an occasional cough from Ensign Ian Scott. The miasma he created seemed not to affect Clemmons at all, as it did not keep him from dozing, awakening only when his chin bounced off the hollow between his collar bones.

  “Work on the stables is essentially complete,” Major Benjamin Wayne reported to the small audience. “In addition to the camels, we will, of course, be loading sufficient fodder for the animals. Sacked grain will be easily stored. Hay will have to be stacked and stuffed into every available cranny and crevice.”

  Clemmons did not raise his head, but his eyes popped open to look through his brow at Wayne. “You will rely on Ensign Scott for guidance as to that. I will not allow you to create a fire hazard aboard my ship.”

  “The way I figure it, the camels will need approximately eleven to twelve tons of hay, assuming a ten-week passage.”

  Clemmons turned his attention to the junior officer. “Mister Scott?”

  The young ensign reddened, embarrassed at his unlikely lack of a ready answer. “I am not familiar with the transport of loose animal fodder in quantity. I will make some calculations.”

  Scott’s florid complexion deepened when Rawhide Robinson said, “Why, Ensign Ian! I declare that is the onliest thing I ever heard of that you don’t know!”

  “I suspect we all have much to learn concerning camels and their provender.”

  Major Wayne slapped the desk and said, “Right you are! My hope is the learning process will be a rapid one. If the advance preparations ordered by the War Department have been carried out, it should be.”

  Rawhide Robinson hefted a booted foot, grabbed it by the ankle and propped it atop a knee. “So it all depends on this feller in Smyrna with two last names, then?”

  “Not altogether. But my superiors in Washington arranged with the Department of State to have their man in Smyrna, Whitman Fitzgerald—two last names, if you will—to assist us. He has been apprised of our anticipated arrival by wire from Palermo. My hope is that he will have already made arrangements with reliable camel merchants to hasten our acquisitions.”

  “You are aware, Major, that the people you will be dealing with are likely experienced and sharp traders and will drive a hard bargain,” Clemmons said.

  “I have been so informed. But I trust they will know better than to attempt to take advantage of the government of the United States of America.”

  Clemmons laughed. “These people don’t give a fig about the United States of America. They’ve been running this part of the world and controlling trade between East and West for centuries. According to their way of thinking, our nation hasn’t been around long enough to matter. Be that as it may, if you negotiate well, they will treat you fairly for the most part. Haggling is an art to them. Not only a way of doing business, but a source of enjoyment as well. Your man Fitzgerald should know the ropes if he has been here a while.”

  “That he has. And we will rely on him if necessary. But, as I said before, I believe we can negotiate favorably on behalf of our government.”

  Clemmons only smiled and emitted a final exhalation of fetid tobacco smoke.

  “That’s all, gentlemen,” Wayne said.

  Rawhide Robinson took Scott by the elbow and suggested they go topside for some fresh air. From the ship’s rail, they watched the Gulf of Smyrna slide by and the seaport city of Smyrna, the most important trade center of Asia Minor, draw near.

  “What about this place, Ensign Ian? It amount to much?”

  “Indeed it does, Mister Rawhide. As Captain Clemmons suggested, it has been an important trading center for many hundreds of years. It’s even mentioned in the Bible—Book of Revelations, if I recall correctly.”

  “Who lives here? Arabs?”

  “Smyrna’s longevity and trade networks give it a cosmopolitan population, I am told and have read.”

  “Cosma-who-litan?”

  Ensign Ian grinned. “Cosmopolitan. It’s a fancy word that means nationalities don’t count for much—‘citizens of the world,’ so to speak. Turks, Greeks, Armenians, Jews and others have resided here for centuries. Many others come from many places to trade, both overland and by sea—from Egypt, Arabia, Palestine, Persia, the Caucasus, Hindustan—as I said, many places.”

  “What sort of stuff do they trade for here?”

  “Carpets. Wool. Textiles. Tobacco. Timber. Figs. Raisins. Rice. Spices. Pottery. Olive oil. Opium. Barley. Leather. Cheese. You name it.”

  “Camels,” the cowboy said.

  “Camels—let’s hope so.”

  The sailors scrambled about the deck and masts, preparing to heave to and drop anchor in the harbor. Those maneuvers completed, Major Wayne, Rawhide Robinson, and Ensign Ian Scott boarded a boat to be rowed ashore.

  “I reckon by now everybody has seen the Stars and Stripes and knows the Americans are in town,” Rawhide Robinson said.

  “I imagine so,” Wayne said. “I hope Fitzgerald is among them and will meet us.”

  The boat tied up at the quay and the men scrambled up a ladder. Before their legs stopped wobbling on unaccustomed firm ground, a hefty man approached, pushing his way through the busy seaport traffic, ordering others aside and out of his way. Three camels followed, led by a man as large as any the Americans had ever seen.

  The portly fellow eyed the arrivals and approached Major Wayne—whose resplendent full-dress uniform signaled his importance—touched fingertips and palms together and bowed.

  “Welcome, beyefendi—sir. Hasan Hussein at your service,” he said, and bowed again. “May I have the pleasure of knowing your name?”

  “Major Benjamin Wayne. United States Army.”

  “Thank you, Benjamin bey.”

  “How can I help you, Mister—Hasan, is it?”

  “No, no, no, no, no, no, Benjamin bey! It is I who can help you.”

  “Oh? How’s that?”

  “I am told you are in the market for camels.” Hasan turned, bowed, and with a smile and sweep of his arm toward the three camels, said, “As you can plainly see, I have camels!”

  Again, quayside traffic parted as a silver-haired man in European-style business attire forced his way through, followed by a younger man in local dress, followed by a girl wearing a head scarf.

  “Let me pass!” the older man shouted. “Make way!” When at last he broke through to reach the Americans, he presented a sheaf of papers to Major Wayne. “Major Benjamin Wayne, I presume. I am Whitman Fitzgerald of the Department of State of the United States of America. You are expected, sir, and I believe you are expecting me.”

  “Indeed we are, Mister Fitzgerald.”

  Fitzgerald turned to Hasan and
said, “What is going on here? Hasan, what are you up to?”

  With a bow, Hasan said, “Merely doing business. Or, it is more correct to say, offering a gift of these three camels to Benjamin bey with the hope that he will engage my services in the acquisition of other camels he may require.”

  “Nonsense! Your services are not required!”

  The Americans on the wharf looked like the pendulum on a clock as their attention shifted from one disputant to the other, occasionally interrupting the rhythm to cast a glance at the giant controlling the camels. As if his hulking presence wasn’t intimidating enough, the glower on his brow, sneer on his lips, and anger in his eyes enhanced the menace. The fingers of his free hand tapping the jeweled handle of a lengthy dagger in the sash around his waist added to his fearsome presence.

  Rawhide Robinson’s attention, however, was on the young girl. As the men argued, she walked among and around the three camels. She stroked their hides, patted their sides, felt their legs, examined their hooves, even peeled back their lips to look at their teeth.

  Eventually, the spat reached an impasse. Hasan allowed that he, as much as anyone, had a right to do business with the Americans. Fitzgerald allowed that Hasan was a thief and that his own man, Hayri, should be trusted. Hasan allowed that Fitzgerald’s prejudice against him was unfounded. Fitzgerald allowed that Hasan’s reputation was well-earned and long established.

  And so on.

  The army officer brought the brouhaha to a halt with the announcement that the decision was his, and he was not ready to make it. “In the meantime,” he said, “we will, with much gratitude, accept Mister Hasan’s gift.”

  The girl’s voice was barely more than a whisper, but somehow, some way, it sounded clear and strong, easily heard even in the cacophony of the crowded quay. “Pardon me, sir, if you please. You do not want these camels.”

  As if tethered together on a string, every head snapped to attention in the girl’s direction.

  “Ssssssssst,” said Hayri, the man who came with Fitzgerald. “Be quiet, Huri!”