Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu

by Vasudev Murthy

  We stepped out of the building and the slaves started digging with vigour. The sand this time was somewhat harder to breach because it was on a well-trodden path. But the team carried on. Curious onlookers were shooed away.

  After about an hour, with the pit easily about ten feet deep and about six feet across, nothing had yet been found. Toumani Kouyate was puzzled.

  “Was it stolen? Or have I miscalculated?” he frowned, scratching his chin.

  “May I look at the entry again?” inquired Yaqub Beg.

  “Yes.”

  Yaqub Beg looked carefully again at the entry and thought for a moment.

  “When we looked at the North side earlier, why did we choose the area on the right? Why not the left?”

  “Because the area on the left had a building built there. We cannot dig there. We could not have destroyed a building.”

  “But now, since we are digging in the area of the old wall, the new place to dig may not have a building!” exclaimed Holmes-Batuta.

  “Very correct!” said Abdurrehman, who had converted from an antagonist to an admirer of his Uzbek visitor.

  The three again pored over the map and agreed on the new location.

  The team rushed there with the slaves. Work began again. Sand flew in the air and the sounds of digging took over.

  In about fifteen minutes, the first signs of success were seen. The diggers had encountered something hard. As they removed sand from what appeared to be a metal box, another digger hit another object a few feet away.

  In a few more minutes, it became clear that the team had hit not one but a number of metal boxes. Excitement grew in both the slaves and the onlookers. Which box was Ibn Batuta’s?

  Al-Kaburi counted the metal boxes as they were lifted up to the surface. All were made of iron and wood and were of a modest size. They had tiny latches but no locks. Due to the lack of moisture, there was very little rust. The boxes were taken to Al-Kaburi’s room where the sand was removed with a soft cloth. And finally, the three looked at the nine boxes on the little table in the room.

  Yaqub Beg asked Toumani Kouyate how he hoped to determine which box belonged to Ibn Batuta.

  “I already know,” said Toumani Kouyate with a smile. “Can you not guess? What do you expect he would have engraved on the box? His own name, of course. Except that he has taken care to write out his complete name instead of simply Ibn Batuta.”

  “This is the box,” he said, pointing at a nondescript metal box of average size. You can see that he or someone else has painted out his name. Look carefully, it is in red and the colour has faded.”

  “Abu Abdullah Muhammad Ibn Abdullah Al Lawati Al Tanji Ibn Batuta,” he pronounced softly, rolling each syllable on his tongue. “Yes, this is the box he entrusted to us to keep for you, Yaqub Beg Batuta. This is your heritage.”

  He handed over the metal box to Al-Kaburi. “Now it is up to you, Haji.”

  Haji Al-Kaburi held the box with reverence and looked at it from various angles.

  “Now Yaqub Beg Batuta, we would like to give it to you. But we have a condition. A request.”

  My heart stopped.

  “Of course!” said Yaqub Beg Batuta.

  “Once you read what is within, will you tell us about it? If the matter is not about the family, can you copy it for us?”

  The request was made with great humility. Yaqub Beg was taken aback.

  “Of course, Haji. This is my property, true. But it belongs to mankind as well. Once I read it and understand it, I will start the process of copying it. It has been here for hundreds of years and it should continue in some way for eternity.”

  Al-Kaburi handed over the box. “Do you not want to open it?” he beamed.

  The air hung heavy with anticipation.

  Yaqub Beg Batuta slowly opened the box. It was stuffed with many manuscripts.

  He withdrew several manuscripts from it from it and leafed over them one by one. He took out something at random and asked Toumani Kouyate if he would do him the honour of reading it out first. Abdurrehman and Al-Kaburi examined the manuscript.

  “This is not a letter, Yaqub Beg. It is just a list of purchases from the Timbuktu market, perhaps before he set out for Gao and Morocco.

  Two bags of millets

  Six goats

  Various vegetables

  Ten bags of dates

  Ten lengths of cloth

  And so on.

  “It is in the handwriting of a very great man.”

  Toumani Kouyate was moved by the moment. He handed the list back to Yaqub Beg wordlessly.

  The clock was ticking.

  Yaqub Beg was silent, overcome by emotion.

  “I must pay the Sankore Mosque for this. I must repay you,” he said in a breaking voice.

  The other men protested vehemently.

  “No, no, we have done our duty! Do not insult us by paying us!”

  “We must thank you for this opportunity!”

  “Once I return to Bukhara, I will send something appropriate on behalf of my family,” said Yaqub Beg, with tears in his eyes.

  “I would like you to leave your slave behind. I have taken a fancy to him, though I see that he is entirely useless,” Al-Kaburi chortled. His body shook with delight as he looked at me, sitting quietly on a rug in my assigned niche.

  Yaqub Beg was startled, as was I. It was an awkward moment. Would he leave me behind to spend the rest of my life in a niche in the wall of Sankore Mosque in Timbuktu, fanning Haji Al-Kaburi?

  Yaqub Beg responded with equanimity. “A very reasonable request. I shall oblige. Once I reach Bukhara, I shall have Morteza teach another slave how to work with my accounts and then send him back. He will be with you in about eight months, In sha’ Allah.

  “Now, Hajis, I leave for Yaounde. Perhaps I shall take a ship back to Tangier from there and then to Istanbul.”

  The other men agreed that it was an excellent plan, though they made loud protestations about our imminent departure. Yaqub Beg also extracted a promise from both men that they would visit Bukhara soon as his guests, a suggestion that received a favourable and enthusiastic response, especially since they were told that their expenses would be reimbursed.

  All along, the other slaves had been plying the three men with tea and dates. It was finally time to leave.

  With great ceremony, Yaqub Beg Batuta left the beautiful Sankore Mosque, with me walking behind. Yaqub Beg gestured to me to carry the metal box for him, as it would not have been appropriate for a man of his stature to carry anything himself when there was a slave available. Since Tuaregs were common in Timbuktu, the silent attentions of Hasso Ag Akotey and a few of his friends were not noticed. We were quite safe.

  We walked back to our Tuareg camp. We entered the tent and Yaqub Beg was transformed into the Holmes I knew so well. With extraordinary speed, he quickly changed into his Tuareg dress, complete with the tagelmust while other Tuaregs helped me do the same efficiently.

  “The chase is on, Watson! Every minute counts. We must leave immediately!”

  “Are you sure you have what you needed, Holmes?”

  “Absolutely sure! The half-manuscript parchment was there. I saw it and took it out from the box without their seeing it while I distracted Toumani Kouyate and Al-Kaburi with another document—what was it?—ah, a list of purchases from the market! Sleight of hand. It is in my pocket. I was unsure if they would part with the box as easily as they actually did, and I planned accordingly. Now I possess both parts. Getting it has been easy. But getting out of Timbuktu and back to London will be difficult. I fully expect that the Guardians will reach this very campsite very soon. There will be violence if we are here. I will write a brief letter to our friends in the Holy See informing them of our travel plans and then we leave.”

  In a few minutes, the letter was w
ritten, sealed in an envelope and handed over to Hasso to post in Timbuktu as soon as he could. Holmes’ meticulous planning over the previous days had resulted in the entire caravan setting off in minutes. There were no delays.

  “Has everyone outside the camp been informed that we are headed back to Taghaza?” he asked Hasso.

  “Yes. Now as per the actual plan, you will travel to the Joliba—the Niger River—with these two men on horseback and board a boat to Gao. We shall go due east in our caravan toward Abalessa, as per the story we told the gendarmes. We shall meet you at Gao. If we do not reach Gao by this time tomorrow, it will mean that we have been caught. Hand over this paper to the Tuaregs you meet. They will guide you. Godspeed, my friend!”

  Holmes and I set out on horseback to the Niger River, a few miles south of Timbuktu, to begin the next phase. We possibly now possessed the secret to eternal life, but at the moment, we were very concerned with avoiding almost certain death.

  The caravan dispersed, moving through the streets of Timbuktu, due east.

  ***

  A day later, twenty Guardians of the Letter, armed with weapons of all kind, arrived at the deserted campsite.

  In the middle of the group was the exalted descendant of Ibn Batuta, Thalassery Vatoot Mohammad Koya, citizen of the British Empire, most recently of Calicut, returned to lay claim to his inheritance.

  18“Good, then let us speak in French instead of Arabic. What brings you to Timbuktu?”

  19“I am a merchant, sire. I travelled from Gibraltar to Tangier, Rabat, Casablanca, and then along Mauritania. We then reached Iwatlan and came here yesterday to Timbuktu. We have come to visit the mosques and look for trading opportunities.”

  20“Any proof of your story?”

  21“Proof? Let me see. Yes, here are some coins from Uzbekistan. Then here is a book I purchased in Istanbul on my way to Tangier. And here is a letter from the Imam of the Juma Masjid in Bukhara—it is a letter of introduction to the Imam of the Djenne mosque. And here is a letter from the Imam in Bukhara to his friend, the Imam at Yaounde.”

  Travelling on the Niger

  Take me home, O Joliba, take me home

  Flow gently, O Joliba, flow gently

  I play your songs on the n’Goni, O Joliba

  The fish swim by my boat, O Joliba

  How tired I am, O Joliba, how tired I am

  Take me home O Joliba, take me home

  Holmes and I quickly reached the smaller port of Djitafe on the banks of the Niger River, passing the French Fort Bonnier to our left. We skipped Kabara and other larger ports that also serviced Timbuktu. Hasso had arranged for a large pirogue to be ready with provisions. Two local Tuaregs were waiting for us with a Fulani boatman and his young teenage son. They helped us off our horses and on to the boat with our precious possessions. It must have been quite a sight—five men in a hurry on the bank. What could possibly be the rush?

  And soon, we were off, praying that the Joliba would take us swiftly to Gao where we hoped the other Tuaregs would wait for us. I was still unsure how we would finally escape.

  The river was picturesque and most appealing. We were at the edge of the desert and yet there were many reminders of the tropics as well. Stretches of the desert were interspersed with fields and occasional remote mud houses. On the south were forests, some of them dense. At some points, huge trees bent heavy boughs into the river. Many wild animals sat in the shade or were at the banks, seeking water. We saw a group of hippopotamus and were told by the boatman that they were extremely dangerous animals, much more so than lions or elephants. And often, we saw gnarled logs of wood floating about that we soon recognized as crocodiles, waiting for gazelles or zebras to drop their guard and walk close to the water. The trees were full of a variety of monkeys and their cries punctuated the air. Geese, herons, kingfishers, egrets, ospreys, and storks were everywhere. My friends at the Natural History Museum in London would have been most gratified, I reflected.

  When I put my hand in the river to feel the current, the boatman shook his head and smiled, and conveyed that there was every possibility of a crocodile snapping at my hands. I presumed that a mishap in the river meant certain death, and I resolved to be still.

  “I must write a monograph on the fauna of the Niger River when we return to Westminster, Watson. I believe the Natural History Society would receive it with considerable warmth,” mused Holmes, now puffing his pipe and watching the scene, after adjusting his veil, as though he were casually reviewing a copy of the Debrett’s Peerage. The boatman must have been rather surprised to see a Tuareg smoking a pipe.

  I did not react. I found Holmes’ views on monographs to be irrelevant and even baffling at a time when crocodiles were swimming by lazily viewing us as a light afternoon snack. I adjusted my tagelmust, irritated.

  We sat in the middle of the boat, with one Tuareg in front and the other behind us. The boatman was strong and experienced and since we were going downriver, he simply steered the boat, using the current to his advantage. He sang and hummed along the way while his young son, at the forward end, who must not have been more than twelve years old, played an interesting native instrument called the n’Goni with verve and enthusiasm. One of the Tuaregs produced a drum called the tende and joined in the music. It helped us calm down and enjoy the ride. We were perhaps fortunate that there were no other boats, it being mid-day, a time for siestas. Though it was the dry season, the rains had been plentiful earlier in the year and so the boat ride was possible.

  Holmes conversed with the Tuaregs in broken Tamasheq.

  “Do you live here?”

  “Yes, near Gao.”

  “How do you know Hasso?”

  “He is our uncle. You are his friends. So you are our friends.” He smiled.

  “And we know how you helped our brothers in Morocco.”

  “Can anyone stop us before Gao?” inquired Holmes.

  “We shall only stop at familiar villages. We are quite safe from here till at least Gao. We shall be in the care of the Kel Gossi, a Tuareg tribe of that area.”

  “Do you know this boatman?”

  “Yes, do not worry. He is an old Fulani friend,” the boatman reassured Holmes.

  “How long will it take?”

  “We may have to halt at sunset at a small village along the way. If we start again at dawn we should be there quickly.”

  Holmes was satisfied, and sat back in his wooden seat, in a familiar posture recalling our tête-à-têtes at 221B Baker Street, a world away.

  “Ah, Watson, an idyllic journey, would you not concede? A trifle warmer than London perhaps, but this interlude allows us to rest and collect our thoughts. I will show you the complete parchment when we reach a position of safety. I have already committed its contents to memory, in the event we are overtaken by forces beyond our control. I hope Hasso is able to avoid trouble and reach Gao. We have had a charmed life thus far. I expected trouble at Sankore Mosque, but we were lucky. We must leave the influence of Timbuktu as soon as possible.”

  “Rather than return the same way as we entered, you believe we should go east, Holmes? From what I have gathered, it is extremely dangerous in addition to having an inhospitable climate.” I was very surprised.

  “Those are the precise reasons why I brought our Tuareg friends along and why going east is what anyone else will not believe we could consider, Watson.”

  “If you had not taken the trouble to learn Arabic and Tamasheq in Tangier, the result might have been considerably different, Holmes. I must compliment you.”

  “You flatter me, Watson, my dear fellow. Planning is everything, Watson, everything!”

  Shortly thereafter, with the sounds of the chattering of monkeys and the gentle splash of water providing an agreeable soporific symphony, I fell asleep.

  When I woke after a half hour, I found Holmes with
an open map of Africa that he had borrowed from the office of the late Antonio Rozzi, considering various options.

  “Ah, Watson, a pleasant nap, it would seem. I fear that the Guardians, after some initial inquiries, may conclude quite correctly that we are likely to go east toward Gao. They are not Tuaregs and do not have connections in various tribes.

  “For now, Watson, let us take the time to enjoy the finer things in life, such as the wonderful music of Mali, instead of confirming the stereotype of stuffy Englishmen who have no idea how to enjoy themselves. Try to sing wildly, Watson, without a care in the world, without wondering if you are in tune or not and whether your actions would invite disapproving comments and censure! Look at how well the Tuaregs enjoy themselves. And look at that young, smiling boy with his n’Goni! Is he worried about Eton and Cambridge and a club where he will waste hours together looking pompous? No! We have much to learn from them, Watson!”

  I demurred. “Yes, Holmes. It will be difficult to dance on this boat, with crocodiles looking on, but I shall follow your advice at the opportune time.”

  Holmes muttered something under his breath, which I could not understand because of the tagelmust.22

  “Would you recommend I write a monograph on the architecture of the Sankore Mosque or the salt mines at Taghaza or the music of the Tuaregs, Watson?” he asked. “Or perhaps all three?”

  “Holmes, I find it alarming that at this time, when we are likely chased by men armed to the teeth, who look forward to our death, you are considering the production of monographs! Can this matter not wait?”

  Holmes sighed. “Watson, you certainly are from England.”

  “And so are you.” I was puzzled. “But how is that relevant now, Holmes?”

  “If only you knew, Watson, if only you knew,” Holmes puffed at his pipe, looking away.

  Time passed on the boat, with the natives occasionally using tobacco as a stimulant. The taciturn natives have extraordinary powers of endurance, I must confess, and go on paddling or steering for hours on end without rest or refreshment. They would occasionally exclaim “Tara! Tara! Bosos!”, a refrain to encourage everyone to push on. The colour of the river seemed to change relentlessly, sometimes blue, sometimes black, sometimes grey. It was never still.