We sat around a campsite one night.
“Perhaps we should return to Tamanrasset and consult an oracle.” Hasso was quietly brusque. He stared at the fire.
Holmes did not respond.
He had long since understood that verbalizing was not necessary in the ways Tuaregs communicated. Often, silence articulated messages more effectively. And actions spoke even better.
Hasso poked at the dying fire with a long stick and threw in a few twigs. Holmes took another stick and did the same. The embers burst into flames again. A gentle crackling and hissing broke the silence of the night.
Holmes took out his violin and the Tuaregs waited for him to begin. He played a slow tune of the most haunting potency, one that I had not heard before. In the ghostly night, with stars looking on and the sand responding, with veiled men gathered about him, Holmes playing a wonderful piece of Tuareg music had an eerie effect. The violin caressed, it smiled, it listened. The tune had a life of its own. It spoke of courage and never giving up. It spoke of grit and determination.29
Holmes had responded to Hasso’s remark. After a long silence, the Tuaregs dispersed quietly.
The next morning we continued, with new determination, spurred on by the Tuaregs’ own music, delivered by the magical fingers of my good friend, Sherlock Holmes. The unrelenting heat was suddenly bearable and we were less susceptible to seeing evil designs in the most inconsequential of things.
By and by, we reached Bilma, another important oasis town, also a part of the Trans-Saharan salt trade routes. We rested for a while. Hasso, Holmes, and I discussed the plan.
“Hasso has explained that it is better we seek the help of the khalifa in Khartoum, Watson.”
“And why?” The matter was quite puzzling to me.
“In the hostile terrain in the Nile cataracts, being under the protection of the khalifa is best, he feels. We have no friends there. To have strangers searching for something in his empire would not go well. Their system of spies is excellent, he says.
“I understand that Herbert Kitchener is the Sirdar of the Anglo-Egyptian army and the British Empire has interests in the Sudan. Lord Dufferin had sent me a message before we left Tangier that the khalifa came across as a man of moods who keeps his tactics close to chest. Kitchener apparently repelled the khalifa’s Ansar troops at Tushkah—when was it? Yes, 1889, which has him simmering. There has been some bad blood in his dealings with Ethiopia too, and Lord Dufferin requested that I meet the man himself and then convey my impressions to the Foreign Office. Hardly a reasonable assignment, given the uncertainties of this mission and my standing, or rather, the lack of it. I have myself read the English translation of the report of Father Joseph Ohrwalder about the situation in Sudan, and it does not make for pleasant reading. We are dealing with some very tough people. It has been months since we left Tangier. Much must have changed. At any rate, Lord Dufferin expects me to introduce myself as Father Bąkiewicz. All rather extreme. But we may well get some mileage with such an identity. Someone with a British background, such as you, may be frowned upon. You may be executed, Watson. I hope that prospect does not unduly alarm you. You will not be aware of any discomfort after the execution, except for a momentary feeling akin to the prick of a needle, I am informed by knowledgeable sources.”
“I shall endeavour to learn Polish quickly to avoid such a fate, Holmes. You will recall that I have lately been your slave in Timbuktu. To be your Polish assistant now appears a simple matter.”
“You disappoint me, Watson, but I can understand, I can understand.” Holmes puffed at his pipe.
“Once we gain the confidence of the khalifa—if we can—we must find a way to visit the Lost Valley. Of that I shall say nothing more for some time, Watson.”
Khartoum was still very far way. The crossing of the desert would take several weeks; indeed the Darfur area in western Sudan was rumoured to hold the skeletons of thousands of unfortunate slaves being marched north by Arab slave-traders during centuries past.
And soon we entered the deserts of Bornu—later, Chad—south of the Tibesti Mountains and then the great Djourab depression. The landscape would certainly have appealed to anyone with artistic sensibilities, but the caravan was cognisant of the very hard path ahead. Days and nights of relentless terrible heat, sandstorms that changed direction abruptly, disorientation, unexpected injuries to the animals—again whispers grew about the Djinn of the desert and how they seemed intent on pushing us back.
Desert horned vipers, scorpions—all endeavoured to associate with our caravan. The descent into the Djourab depression was akin to reaching Hell. The air was sometimes still, dry and hot, making it difficult to breathe. There was a suffocation that made it impossible to think clearly. Even the effort of thinking seemed tortuous and unnecessary. And yet, mysteriously, it seemed as though a thin layer of violent wind attacked the feet of the camels and those who chose to walk. There was sand and dust everywhere. Dust this time because the Tinariwen was mixed with patches of soil with unimpressive scrubs and bush. The Bodélé depression was apparently the source for this and I later discovered it fed the Sahel, just below the borders of the Tinariwen. We were used to sand, and could shake it off regularly but the white dust had the additional property of staying on us and making us feel grimy and dirty. Oh, the excruciating misery of that trip!
The camels again showed signs of discomfort and unease. One or two seemed positively nervous, and that affected the caravan. We lost a man during this section. I was woken one morning with the request that I attend to someone who was gasping for breath. I rushed to his tent, and found that his symptoms were similar to asphyxiation. The poor man suffered greatly and despite my best efforts, he slipped into unconsciousness and finally died. It was the combination of heat, poor quality air, and dust that had felled him.
We buried him near an oasis at the edge of the Bodélé. The mood was very sombre. The omens seemed to have a basis, I imagined. There was a deep silence. Conversations had come to a noticeable halt in a group of men who were normally not talkative at the best of times.
“No, Watson, there is no option now. The map shows that we are near the Darfur, Sudan’s western region. If we brave it across the Ennedi Mountains coming up and continue for a few more weeks, we shall succeed.” His manner betrayed a slight unease.
In a culture in which voicing discomfort was rare, and courage was expected at every turn, there was no option but to move ahead, especially since the matter had apparently been conclusively settled a couple of weeks prior. Yet there could be no doubt that a dragging soup of reluctance tugged at our feet, making our progress appear to be in slow motion. The white dust swirled, often reducing visibility, unnerving even the most placid camels in the caravan.
We forged on, as men possessed, numb, wondering if such inhuman conditions were real. I knew that most of the men had not travelled this route before, instead having gone straight down south to Lake Chad and then headed east. Foolhardy hardly described us. But going to Lake Chad had been deemed too risky and would have added time to our journey, which we could not afford.
Days merged into weeks. We crossed the Ennedi Mountains and moved through paths rarely frequented by men. In a few canyons, we found shade and water and observed the rare dwarf crocodiles not found anywhere else. We rested for two days, gearing up for the last long march to Khartoum. Bodélé had been harrowing and most challenging. I would venture to say that it was only our collective determination that took us through. The remoteness, the serene, savage beauty of the land, the unexpected sandstorms—none of us had experienced anything similar. There was no question of travelling again via the Djourab back to Tamarasset, and I knew that our Tuareg friends agreed.
Some weeks later, we were in the Darfur region, yet another oven, witness to the ghostly screams of tortured souls, slaves who had died unknown, their graves unmarked. We reached Kobbei, a dying transit town, once on th
e Darb el Arba’in, a prominent slave-trading route, particularly notorious as a favourite of the Arab traders.
At Kobbei, we chanced upon another small caravan of Tuaregs who were westward bound, though they proposed to go to N’Djamena to the south. About ten of our party decided to return with this group owing to ill health and other reasons. We were now about thirty, set to go east to Khartoum.
Thirty is not a large number but after replenishing our supplies, we were emboldened to strike out across the Western Darfur desert, on our last leg of an excruciatingly hostile journey. The Jebel Marrah volcanic massif was at a distance looking at us impassively. There was a healthier mix of grassland and then the desert. Our Tuareg friends did not travel on this route often.
It would be germane to mention here that Hasso Ag Akotey had expressly wished to help us. Though we did compensate the Tuaregs for their expenses as much as we could, their commitment to our mission was driven by loyalty and a deep love for Holmes, whom they still called “Father,” even though Hasso knew that was not his real name. The months of travel had created very strong bonds of friendship between them and us. Our visit to Abalessa—and the incident of the attack by the bandits—and subsequent display of respect to their queen’s grave had only added to their list of our praiseworthy attributes.
The caravan moved on due east over several days. We were at the edge of the Sahel for the most part and while the journey was not easy, it was certainly much better than the harrowing travel just prior. The collective mood of the caravan became more relaxed. We had endured a most singular journey, one that had taken a toll on even the toughest Tuareg. To have emerged unscathed seemed almost a badge of courage. The men were singing often and the camels moved at a comfortable pace.
Holmes was always reviewing several papers he had with him whenever we set up overnight camps. It appeared that we had the manuscript that promised eternal life, a concept that was as far away from logic and science that I could imagine. Preposterous! What did Holmes really wish to do? Why was he of the belief that he had stumbled upon something of value subsequent to my innocuous comment at Abalessa?
Soon, after a monotonous and uneventful journey, touching upon places like Al-Fahir, Al Nuhud, and Al-Ubayyid, the unmistakable signs of a large river valley became obvious. We saw many more birds and large clusters of desert flora. And the number of villages and people increased. We were able to halt often, as water became more abundant. We reached the banks of the White Nile at a small town called Kusti. A great mental milestone had been reached. We had travelled across the Sahara, from Tangier to Tifilalt to Taghaza to Timbuktu to Kidal to Abalessa to Gilma to Kusti—and that was not counting the arid mountains, the horrors of Bodélé, the bandit attack, the hallucinations. And all this with the spectre of the Guardians chasing us, determined to cut us off and claim what they felt was theirs. Timbuktu seemed an entire world away. I wondered if we had actually experienced those events at the Sankore Mosque and the journey on the Niger River.
Our caravan was soon on a well-worn path north to Khartoum. Now we were faced with the problem, hopefully easily solved, of getting an audience with the khalifa. Would he meet us? Would he entertain our request for permission to visit the Secret Valley, wherever it was? I did not question Holmes—I knew he had a clear idea of what he was looking for. He would ask me for help when he thought it appropriate.
Young Freddy seemed pleased to be travelling north by the side of the Nile. He, too, had seen the Sahara in its entirety and magnificence, and given me quiet companionship and protection. I would not have survived without him.
28Modern Niger
29Readers in Southampton or Glasgow may remark that this is not the John Watson they have been used to reading. Perhaps. Yet, I assert that travel is a great liberator, and I am not reticent in admitting that this journey added much to my worldview. I felt a light embarrassment that my views in the past may have been construed as overly conservative.
The khalifa and the Valley
I now come to perhaps a key point in my narrative.
The knowledgeable reader with a good memory would recall the reports that emerged from Egypt and Sudan, in The Times and other newspapers of the day. Despite every effort made by the Foreign Office to arm-twist the Press, rumours and innuendoes did get occasionally published. They were cloaked in mysterious language, but it was easy to see beyond obfuscation. A little background—the fussy may call it a digression—will be important to the scholar. An examination of the footnote on this page30 will be invaluable.
The role of Sherlock Holmes in the quiet backroom machinations behind the Convention of Constantinople is unlikely ever to be revealed, though I am in full possession of the facts. The public today thirsts for sordid crime and punishment, and so the quiet victories achieved by others in furthering the interests of the country are rarely acknowledged, or even understood. There is the apparent and there is the cloaked. Only very foolish men find satisfaction in exposing what is best kept under wraps. I have chosen to not speak about this matter; let it be buried quietly.
The alert reader will observe that I speak of an event predating our arrival into Khartoum. Indeed, my reference thus far has been to the Constantinople matter, not the matters that brought us to Morocco and subsequently to Khartoum in the manner described in several previous pages. By this you may infer, quite correctly, that Holmes was entirely abreast of the affairs of this region for many years. It was just a curious, completely separate matter that had brought him (and me) to the Sudan. I am quite sure that even Lord Dufferin was unaware of Holmes’ unspoken advantage.
I have spoken briefly of the khalifa before. His name was Abdallahi ibn Muhammad and he was certainly quite adept in the matters of state, having seized power after the death of his predecessor, the magnetic religious preacher, the Mahdi, also known as Muhammad Ahmad ibn as Sayyid Abd Allah. His ability to challenge the French and the British and, in parallel, take care of domestic intrigue, was a matter to be admired, even if the result was not favourable enough for us. It was always helpful then to keep watch on his actions and have multiple sources of information so as to derive a consistent conclusion.
But yet, without understanding the subject, a story is necessarily incomplete. We had arrived at the gates of Khartoum at a time that could be described as tense. The British feared that the khalifa might attack the Suez Canal and seize control of commerce, a prospect that was unthinkable. In that sense, the alliance between the European powers was strong; Egypt, Ethiopia, the headwaters of the Nile, the Suez, French interests in Central Africa, British interests in Kenya and Tanganyika—this heady cocktail of issues required strong intelligence on the ground. Sherlock Holmes was not naïve; his brother, Mycroft, would have prevailed on him to act on behalf of the British Empire.
Some years later, I was privy to a largely silent conversation between the brilliant brothers at the surly Diogenes Club.
We sat quietly in Mycroft’s presence. He was reading a large volume on Shakespeare’s plays. After some ten minutes, he spoke.
“Khartoum.”
“Yes.”
“As inferred?”
“Mere logic.”
A raised eyebrow, a shift in the seat, a page turned.
“The…?”
An imperceptible nod.
“Moriarty?”
“The obvious.”
A relaxed slump in the seat. A gentle half-smile.
“You were right,” said Sherlock Holmes.
“I always am.”
Mycroft’s eyes opened briefly and he raised an eyebrow in my direction while looking at his brother.
Holmes nodded briefly again.
Mycroft reopened his Shakespeare.
The interview was over and we both left the oppressive atmosphere of the club that frowned on even the slightest whisper.
The corpulent Mycroft and the ath
letic Sherlock—two brothers with vastly different temperaments but the same razor-sharp minds.
After camping at a spot just outside Khartoum, we rested and then set out to the city. We decided not to take Hasso because we were unsure of the attitude of the khalifa to the Tuaregs. It was best to go as Europeans. I had already been informed by Holmes that he had rechristened me and my new name was now to be Tadeusz Bór-Komorowski and I was to be his secretary. I am embarrassed to say that I could barely pronounce my own name.
After suitable inquiries, we finally reached the palace, a modest structure in Omdurman, just northwest and adjacent to Khartoum, across the Nile. It was well guarded, as we expected, but otherwise a simple affair. Sherlock Holmes was dressed in his priestly habit. His commanding presence allowed him to approach anyone and get answers immediately.
After some initial inquiries we were escorted into the presence of one of his chief aides, Uthman Shaykh Al-Din, who was also one of the khalifa’s sons. He was dressed in white, in the custom of the region. After some initial pleasantries and introductions, while sipping some tea and sampling some dates, spoke (in Arabic).
“Where is this Poland, Father Bąkiewicz?”
“It is in the north of Europe, Your Excellency. An exceedingly cold place.”
“Far away from the lands of the British and French?”
“Indeed. We have nothing in common.”
“That is good. We are not fond of them. They are not trustworthy people. Always interfering and telling us what to do and how to live. For them, money is everything.”
A few surrounding assistants shook their heads and clicked their tongues, disgusted by the British and French.
We, too, nodded in approval, though we were embarrassed by the rather harsh opinion they seemed to carry of us.
“What brings you here, Father Bąkiewicz?”
“Your Excellency, we seek permission to visit the area near Meroe. I am an archaeologist and very interested in the history of your ancient civilization.”
Sherlock Holmes, The Missing Years: Timbuktu Page 23
