by Rod Miller
“Well?” said a sailor.
“And?” said another.
“Then?” said yet another.
“Then,” said Rawhide Robinson, the waterlogged raconteur, “I aimed that double-barreled eight-gauge shotgun at the seafloor, wrapped a finger around each trigger and let loose both barrels at once.”
After a moment of tense silence a chorus of sailors, as if on cue, said, “What happened?!”
“What happened is, that goose gun blew a huge hole right through the bottom of that lake. Opened up a drain as slick as pullin’ the plug out of a bathtub. The water whirled and swirled and funneled down the drain like it does, and took me and that horse and the shotgun and the saddlebags full of money right along with it.
“Next thing I knew, I was spit out into a river. Turns out, after going down, down, down that drain we ended up in the San Luis Valley and that river was the Rio Grande itself. So, we floated along all the way down to Texas. As the aforementioned Shakespeare said, ‘All’s well that ends well.’ ”
The audience sat silent, completely overwhelmed.
Except for one particular officer: “One thing, Rawhide.”
“What’s that, Ensign Ian?”
“You said earlier the bores in those shotgun barrels looked ‘Darn near the size of those in the cannons on this here boat.’ ”
“Yes, I do believe I did say that.”
“I needn’t remind you, sir, that the USS Cordwood is a ship, not a boat.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
* * *
Rawhide Robinson, Major Benjamin Wayne, and Ensign Ian Scott stood at the rail of the USS Cordwood as Alexandria hove into view. Harry, Hurry, even Ibrahim (now free from confinement and behaving himself, if only reluctantly) and every sailor and officer not otherwise occupied did likewise.
“It is unfortunate the great lighthouse of Alexandria no longer stands to greet us,” came a wistful observation from the young ensign. “Or the library, for which the city was once famous.”
Rawhide Robinson said, “I’ve read bits and pieces here and there about this place, but can’t say I know much of anything about it.”
“For a thousand years, this was one of the most important cities in all the earth. The Greeks and the Romans controlled much of their empires from here. Shipping, trade, culture—Alexandria had it all.”
“How came it to be here?”
“Founded by Alexander the Great, some three centuries before the time of Christ.”
“Alexander the Great—him, I’ve heard of.”
Major Wayne laughed. “As have I—and, I suppose, every soldier the world over. Even today, his abilities as a fighting man are studied. His campaigns were part of the curriculum and drilled into us at West Point, and I suspect they still are and always will be. Alexander used camels in his armies—there weren’t many of them in this country before he came along. Let’s hope there are plenty of them here now, and that we can acquire what we need.”
Within a day, Captain Clemmons arranged a berth at the Port of Alexandria and docked at the wharf. Already, Harry had located Mehmet, a cousin of sorts and trader in Egyptian cotton and other goods. As soon as the gangplank dropped, the Turk and his cousin, with Hurry, Wayne, and Rawhide Robinson tagging along, were abroad in the city on a camel hunt.
Results were disappointing. Old camels were plentiful. Sick camels were available. The supply of lame camels was ample. Camels afflicted with mange were obtainable. Quantities of unsound camels were inexhaustible.
All the camels, of course, were represented by their sellers as prime, pristine, and excellent in every respect. “Reminds me of an old horse trader I come across one time in my travels,” Rawhide Robinson said as they stopped to talk on the fringe of the raucous bazaar.
“Don’t recollect the name his momma gave him, but ‘Pink’ is what he went by. I’m here to tell you that boy had larceny in his soul and would do most anything to sell a horse at a healthy profit. He might not out-and-out lie to a feller, but he’d stretch the truth farther than a soakin’ wet reata in a rainstorm.
“Why, he’d pull a shoe off a lame horse and try to convince you it limped on account of it threw a shoe. I saw him one time shove a sponge up the nose of a wind-broke horse to keep it from whistling. A horse could be a-layin’ there so dead Saint Peter already had a saddle on him and Pink would suggest he was havin’ a nap. Weren’t no limit to what he’d do to shift a horse, and I suspect most of these camel traders is cut from the same bolt of calico.”
“You’re probably right, Robinson,” Major Wayne said. “Tomorrow’s another day and we’ll see what it brings in the way of camels.”
A ruction in the bazaar drew the men’s attention and they saw Hurry scurrying down a narrow alleyway with a man in Bedouin robes hot on her heels. The girl yanked down the awning on a jeweler’s stall to slow her pursuer, then leaped over a table displaying fabrics and leathers and upset it in his path. Traders roared and shoppers shouted as the race wreaked havoc in the aisles and alleys of the market.
“Huri!” Harry hollered.
Hurry managed to stay a few steps ahead of the man at her heels. Rawhide Robinson noticed her slow from time to time, then duck or dodge or quicken her step to remain a fingernail’s length outside his reach. “I’ll be darned,” he said. “That gal’s toying with him. He ain’t never goin’ to catch her.”
“But why is he after her?”
Hurry ducked out of a passageway and ran toward them.
“I don’t know,” the cowboy said. “But I reckon we’re about to find out.”
The girl ran past so fast a breeze fanned the men. Seconds later, the Bedouin raced by and Rawhide Robinson stretched out a booted foot and tripped him up. Before he stopped tumbling, Major Wayne was upon him, pulling him upright and wrenching his arm behind him as a restraint. Hurry circled around and joined them, smiling at her erstwhile pursuer. While he was barely able to draw breath to curse her, Hurry showed no sign of the race.
Harry’s cousin Mehmet questioned the Bedouin, his answers coming in gasps. Others from the bazaar gathered round, many pontificating and pointing at the man. The man, they said, was a slave trader. While his attempt to capture Hurry was unsuccessful, they had long suspected him of kidnapping other girls in similar fashion to trade them away to the harems of desert sultans.
The uproar attracted the attention of a policeman patrolling the bazaar and Major Wayne turned the Bedouin over to him.
“Huri!” Harry said. “Huri—” he said, unable to find any other words.
Major Wayne took up the task. “Young lady, what on earth were you up to? We didn’t notice you slip away. You must stay with us. Obviously, it is not safe for an unaccompanied girl here. Tell me, what were you doing wandering off?”
Not looking the least bit apologetic or agitated, Hurry looked the major in the eye and said, “I went looking for Adana kebab. I grow weary of your insipid American food.”
“Adana kebab?”
Harry explained it as a dish popular in Turkey and throughout the Levant, consisting of spicy and savory skewered minced meat.
Rawhide Robinson laughed. “I know what you mean, Hurry. But don’t you fret none. Once we get to Texas, you’ll find plenty of provender piquant enough to prickle your palate.”
“In the meantime, young lady,” Major Wayne said, “you stay with us. Otherwise, you will be forbidden to leave the ship. I’ll put you in chains if necessary.”
Hurry grinned. “As the Bedouin wished to do?”
“Hmmmph,” Wayne said.
His warnings, threats, and admonitions were ineffective, however, for as soon as the major, Rawhide Robinson, and Harry stepped off the gangplank and onto the wharf early the next morning to meet Mehmet and continue the quest to acquire camels, Hurry came running down the wharf toward them from the direction of the city.
“Major Benjamin Wayne!” she shouted. “Mister Rawhide Robinson! Uncle Hayri! I have found them!”
“Wha
t are you talking about, young lady? What have you found?” Major Wayne said.
“Camels! The camels!”
Rawhide Robinson laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Simmer down, Hurry, and tell us about it.”
Hurry hitched and shifted her salwar—baggy trousers tight at the ankles—and jacket, disheveled from running. She swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “Last night a caravan of Dyula traders arrived from Al-Fashir. I have spoken to them. They will sell some of their camels. The camels are tired and thin from the long crossing of the desert, but they are sound and their health is good.”
It took the men a while to overcome their surprise. “I suppose we ought to go see these camels,” Major Wayne said upon regaining his composure.
He and the others hurried to keep up with Hurry.
The situation at the Dyula camp on the outskirts of Alexandria was precisely as Hurry described it. The camels had crossed the immense Sahara and the effects were evident—all were tenderfooted, tired, and thin.
But careful examination proved Hurry’s assessment. The animals were in fine fettle, healthy and sound and suffered from nothing that could not be cured by rest and relaxation, fodder and water.
“Heaven knows there will be plenty of time for that aboard the Cordwood,” Major Wayne said.
The men examined the caravan at length, studying feet and legs, teeth and toenails, humps and heads, eyes and hides. They compared and contrasted, discussed and disputed, ranked and rated, and agreed on seven mature but young camels. Upon seeing their selections, the Dyula leader laughed.
“What do you find funny, my friend?” Harry asked. “Do you disagree with our choices?”
“Not at all. You have chosen well.”
“Then what is the reason for your hilarity?”
“It is the girl,” the Dyula said. “Last night, within minutes and by firelight, she selected the same animals!”
Harry gasped. Mehmet gulped. Major Wayne choked and coughed and had trouble catching his breath.
Rawhide Robinson only smiled.
“The girl,” the Dyula said, “has a rare gift. I am a man of many years, every one spent in the presence of camels. Never have I seen such an affinity with the animals. For the girl, I will give these seven camels and three others besides.”
“Oh, no, my friend! It is not possible,” Harry said. “She is of my family, and I have a sacred responsibility to care for her until she is of an age to marry.”
The Dyula nodded. “I have gold from Bambuk, kola nuts from the Sudan, and textiles from Timbuktu to offer. And do not fear—among our people many suitable husbands will vie to espouse the girl. Including my sons.”
“No. I am sorry. Your generosity is appreciated. But Huri will remain with me.”
Rawhide Robinson and Major Wayne looked on as Mehmet and Harry negotiated a price for the camels. The back-and-forth conversation involved a patois of languages, none of which the Americans understood. But they trusted Harry and his cousin to strike a favorable deal and they returned to the USS Cordwood late that morning with seven dromedaries in tow.
Unlike the machinations in Smyrna, the loading in Alexandria was simple—the camels trod across the gangplank from the wharf to the deck of the ship, arousing the curiosity of everyone on the quay, then disappeared through the hatch and down the ramp and were ensconced in stalls in the hold within minutes, content with the hay and grain and water and respite from their labors they found there.
By evening, the USS Cordwood cast off and set sail for Tunis, where the Dyula trader assured them they would find a few more camels of quality to complete their cargo.
But, in Tunis, the expedition would find much more than the animals they sought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
* * *
The USS Cordwood sailed along the coast of North Africa, venturing into deeper waters of the Mediterranean to bypass the Gulf of Sidra, following a more direct route toward the Halq al Wadi, the seaport for the city of Tunis.
The earlier experience with pirates prompted Captain Clemmons to keep a careful watch. Eyes were peeled around the clock to detect the presence of Barbary Pirates or other Corsairs, who historically sailed their xebecs out of Tripoli and Algiers, each coastal city lying well within striking distance of the Cordwood’s course.
But the voyage proved uneventful, with the officers and sailors going about their routine duties. Rawhide Robinson spent his time with the camels, building familiarity with the beasts by helping the assigned seamen with feeding and grooming. He quizzed Harry and Ibrahim for information when occasion arose. The girl Hurry, however, was where he looked first and foremost for knowledge and understanding.
He asked about the personalities and disposition of camels. About training and handling. He queried the Turks concerning breeding, gestation, and the birth of camel calves. About lactation and weaning. He inquired about sleep habits and preferred periods of peak activity. Proclivities concerning sociability and solitude. He asked about halters and hobbles, saddles and packing, loading and hauling.
And he questioned them concerning a hundred, maybe a thousand, other details about the animals the army expected him to integrate into the Wild West. The knowledge in Rawhide Robinson’s head swelled to such an expansive size it took all the room in his thirteen-gallon hat to contain it.
Still, being the curious sort he was, the cowboy risked another onslaught of knowledge as they sailed into Tunis. “Well, Encyclopedia Ian,” he said to Ensign Ian Scott, “tell me all about this place.”
The eager and informed young officer was not in the least bit reluctant to enlighten Rawhide Robinson and the others who gathered around on the foredeck. “Tunis,” he said, “is an ancient city—settled perhaps 8,000 years ago, although of course no one knows for sure.
“Owing to the city’s location, the Berber culture here has been influenced over the years by people from the Sahel and sub-Saharan Africa as well as Europeans and Levantines. Phoenicians, Romans, Vandals, Byzantines, Arabs, and Ottomans have all held sway here at one time or another. Of late—within the last century, say—Tunis has been invaded by Algerians, Venetians, the English, and the French. According to what I have read—”
“—What haven’t you read?” some sailor interrupted.
“Hush up and let the man talk,” Rawhide Robinson said.
“According to what I have read,” Ensign “Encyclopedia Ian” Scott said, “the French are very much in evidence today, and the city has grown—perhaps as many as 100,000 people live here today.”
“I don’t much care about how many folks call this place home,” the cowboy said. “So long as there are a few camels for sale.”
With the history lesson complete, the officers and crew went about the business of landing the ship at a slip at the seaport. At first opportunity, teams of camel shoppers from the ship passed through the Bab el Bahr—sea gate—and into the city and the bazaar seeking suitable animals for acquisition. Major Wayne accompanied the intransigent Ibrahim, Ensign Scott was assigned to accompany Harry, and Rawhide Robinson rattled his hocks to keep up with Hurry.
The girl’s well-tuned nose for camels led them to a private pen tucked away from the histrionic hawkers and hustlers at the camel corrals connected to the bazaar. After wandering among the ungulates, Hurry, Rawhide Robinson, and the dromedary herdsman squatted in the shade of a mud wall. The cowboy could only shave a stick of firewood into a toothpick with his well-honed Barlow knife as Hurry and the man talked. He had no idea what they were saying, but given his opinion of and experience with the girl, he had no doubt she pressed the trader hard concerning the qualities of and expected compensation for the camels—and that she would negotiate a favorable price to present to Major Wayne.
Hurry could not resist stopping at the bazaar for another dose of Levantine cuisine to offset the decidedly dull diet dished up daily aboard the ship. She nosed out a food vendor who catered to her favorite flavors and, after gobbling a goodie to take the edge off her
taste buds, handed something that looked like a fried pie to Rawhide Robinson.
“What’s this?”
“Brik. It is meat, vegetables, and egg in pastry. Here,” Hurry said, handing Rawhide Robinson a small cup of a red pasty sauce. “Dip it in this.”
“What’s this?”
“Harissa. It is made from red peppers, so mind your tongue.”
“Horsefeathers! I been funneling chili down my gullet since long before you were born. Why, I’ve et stuff that’ll make your teeth sweat and singe your esophagus.”
With that, he dunked a corner of the brik into the harissa and scooped up a ponderous glob of the sauce and chomped off a substantial chunk of the sandwich.
With that, he went wall-eyed.
With that, his face turned the color of the harissa.
With that, perspiration popped from his pores and puddled around his boots.
With that, his tongue sizzled to a crisp.
With that, his teeth seared the inside of his lips.
With that, his stomach swelled as the steam inside sought escape.
With that, the hairs on his head scorched the innards of his thirteen-gallon hat.
With that, a blistering blast of his breath blew through the bazaar and elevated the ambient temperature like a Sirocco blustering off the Sahara.
“Yeeeehaaaaw!” he said upon regaining control of his faculties. “That’s good stuff!”
And he took another bite.
Hurry laughed until tears ran down her face as she watched tears run down Rawhide Robinson’s face as he masticated his second mouthful.
Then another.
And another.
And yet another and another, until finishing his brik and the same again, Hurry munching right along with him, bite for bite.
Their stomachs full and appetites sated, the plethoric pair plodded off to the port, where Major Wayne and Ibrahim awaited them aboard the Cordwood.
“Where’s Harry and Ensign Ian?” the cowboy asked.
“No sign of them as yet,” the major said.
