by Talbot Mundy
Everything is different — everything strange — everything, except the heat, delightful. And as Fred said, “some folk would grumble in hell!” Trees, flowers, birds, costumes of the women, sheen of the sea, glint of sun on bare skins of every shade from ivory to ebony, dazzling coral roadway and colored coral walls, babel of tongues, sack-saddled donkeys sleepily bearing loads of coral for new buildings, and — winding in and out among it all — the narrow-gauge tramway on which trolleys pushed by stocky little black men carry officialdom gratis, and the rest of the world and his wife according to tariff; all those things are the alphabet of Mombasa’s charm. Arranged, and rearranged — by chance, by individual perspective, and by point of view — they spell fascination, attractiveness, glamour, mystery. And no acquaintance with Mombasa, however intimate or old, dispels the charm to the man not guilty of cynicism. To the cynic (and for him) there are sin — as Africa alone knows how to sin — disease, of the dread zymotic types — and death; death peering through the doors of godowns, where the ivory tusks are piled; death in the dark back-streets of the bazaar, where tired policemen wage lop-sided warfare against insanitary habits and a quite impracticable legal code; death on the beach, where cannibal crabs parade in thousands and devour all helpless things; death in the scrub (all green and beautiful) where the tiny streets leave off and snakes claim heritage; death in the grim red desert beyond the coast-line, where lean, hopeless jackals crack today men’s dry bones left fifty years ago by the slave caravans — marrowless bones long since stripped clean by the ants. But we are not all cynics.
Last to be cynic or pessimist was Louis McGregor Abraham, proprietor of the Imperial Hotel — Syrian by birth, Jew by creed, Englishman by nationality, and admirer first, last and all the time of all things prosperous and promising, except his rival, the Hotel Royal.
“You came to the right place,” he assured us when the last hot porter had dumped the last of our belongings on the porch, had ceased from chattering to watch Fred’s financial methods, had been paid double the customary price, and had gone away grumbling (to laugh at us behind our backs). “They’d have rooked you at the other hole — underfed you, overcharged you, and filled you full of lies. I tell the truth to folk who come to my hotel.”
And he did, some of it. He was inexhaustible, unconquerable, tireless, an optimist always. He had a store that was part of the hotel, in which he claimed to sell “everything the mind of man could wish for in East Africa”; and the boast was true. He even sold American dime novels.
“East Africa’s a great country!” he kept assuring us. “Some day we’ll all be rich! Have to get ready for it! Have to be prepared! Have to stock everything the mind of man can want, to encourage new arrivals and make the old ones feel at home. Lose a little money, but why grumble? Get it back when the boom comes. As it will, mind you. As it will. Can’t help it. Richest country in the world — grow anything — find anything — game — climate — elevation — scenery — natives by the million to do the work — all good! Only waiting for white men with energy, and capital to start things really moving!”
But there were other points of view. We went to the bank, and found its manager conservative. The amount of the draft we placed to our credit insured politeness.
“Be cautious,” he advised us. “Take a good look round before you commit yourselves!”
He agreed to manage the interchange of messages between us and Monty, and invited us all to dinner that evening at the club; so we left the bank feeling friendly and more confident. Later, a chance-met English official showed us over the old fort (now jail) where men of more breeds and sorts than Noah knew, better clothed and fed than ever in their lives, drew endless supplies of water in buckets from da Gama’s well.
“Some of them have to be kicked out when their sentences expire!” he told us. “See you at the club tonight. Glad to help welcome you.”
But there was a shock in store, and as time passed the shocks increased in number and intensity. Our guns had not been surrendered to us by the customs people. We had paid duty on them second-hand at the rate for new ones, and had then been told to apply for them at the collector’s office, where our names and the guns’ numbers would be entered on the register — for a fee.
We now went to claim them, and on the way down inquired at a store about ammunition. We were told that before we could buy cartridges we would need a permit from the collector specifying how many, and of what bore we might buy. There was an Arab in the store ahead of us. He was buying Martini Henry cartridges. I asked whether he had a permit, and was told he did not need one.
“Being an Arab?” I asked.
“Being well known to the government,” was the answer.
We left the store feeling neither quite so confident nor friendly. And the collector’s Goanese assistant did the rest of the disillusioning.
No, we could not have our guns. No, we could have no permit for ammunition. No, the collector was not in the office. No, he would not be there that afternoon. It was provided in regulations that we could have neither guns, sporting licenses, nor permits for ammunition. The guns were perfectly safe in the government godown — would not be tampered with — would be returned to us when we chose to leave the country.
“But, good God, we’ve paid duty on them!” Oakes protested.
“You should not have brought the guns with you unless you desired to pay duty,” said the Goanese.
“But where’s the collector?” Yerkes demanded.
“I am only assistant,” was the answer. “How should I know?”
The man’s insolence, of demeanor and words, was unveiled, and the more we argued with him the more sullen and evasive he grew, until at last he ordered us out of the office. At that we took chairs and announced our intention of staying until the collector should come or be fetched. We were informed that the collector was the most important government official in Mombasa — information that so delighted Fred that he grew almost good tempered again.
“I’d rather twist a big tail than a little one!” he announced. “Shall we sing to pass the time?”
The Goanese called for the askari,* half-soldier, half-police-man, who drowsed in meek solitude outside the office door.
—— —— —— —— * Askari, soldier. —— —— —— ——
“Remove these people, please!” he said in English, and then repeated it in Kiswahili.
The askari eyed us, shifted his bare feet uncomfortably, screwed up his courage, tried to look stern, and said something in his own tongue.
“Put them out, I said!” said the Goanese.
“He orders you to put us out!” grinned Fred.
“The office closes at three,” said the Goanese, glancing at the clock in a half-hearted effort to moderate his own daring.
“Not unless the collector comes and closes it himself, it doesn’t!”
Fred announced with folded arms.
Will pulled out two rupees and offered them to the sentry.
“Go and bring us some food,” he said. “We intend to stay in here until your bwana makubwa* comes.”
—— —— —— — * Bwana makubwa, lit. big master, senior government officer. —— —— —— —
The sentry refused the money, waving it aside with the air of a Caesar declining a crown.
“Gee!” exclaimed Will. “You’ve got to hand it to the British if they train colored police to refuse money.”
The askari, it seemed, was a man of more than one kind of discretion. Without another word to the Goanese he saluted the lot of us with a sweep of his arm, turned on his heel and vanished — not stopping in his hurry to put on the sandals that lay on the door-step. We amused ourselves while he was gone by flying questions at the Goanese, calculated to disturb what might be left of his equanimity without giving him ground for lawsuits.
“How old are you?”— “How much pay do you get?”— “How long have you held your job?”— “Do you ever get drunk?”— “Are you married?�
�— “Does your wife love you?”— “Do you keep white mice?”— “Is your life insured?”— “How often have you been in jail?”— “Are you honest?”— “Are you vaccinated against the jim-jams?”— “Why is your name Fernandez and not Braganza?”
The man was about distracted, for he had been unwise enough to try to answer, when suddenly the collector came in great haste and stalked through the office into the inner room.
“Fernandez!” he called as he passed, and the Goanese hurried after him, hugely relieved. There was five minute’s consultation behind the partition in tones too low for us to catch more than a word or two, and then Fernandez came out again with a “Now wait and see, my hearties!” smile on his face. He was actually rubbing his palms together, sure of a swift revenge.
“He says you are to go in there,” he announced.
So we filed in, Fred Oakes first, and it seemed to me the moment I saw the collector’s face that the outlook was not so depressing. He looked neither young nor incompetent. His jaw was neither receding nor too prominent. His neck sat on his shoulders with the air of full responsibility, unsought but not refused. And his eyes looked straight into those of each of us in turn with a frank challenge no honest fellow could resent.
“Take seats, won’t you,” he said. “Your names, please?”
We told him, and he wrote them down.
“My clerk tells me you tried to bribe the askari. You shouldn’t do that. We are at great pains to keep the police dependable. It’s too bad to put temptation in their way.”
Will, with cold precision, told him the exact facts. He listened to the end, and then laughed.
“One more Goanese mistake!” he said. “We have to employ them. They mean well. The country has no money to spend on European office assistants. Well — what can I do for you?”
At that Fred cut loose.
“We want our guns before dark!” he said. “It’s the first time my character has been questioned by any government, and I say the same for my friends!”
“Oh?” said the collector, eying us strangely.
“Yes!” said Fred.
“That is so,” said I.
“Entirely so,” said Will.
“I have information,” said the collector, tapping with a pencil on his blotter, “that you men are ivory hunters. That you left Portuguese territory because the German consul there had to request the Portuguese government to expel you.”
“All easily disproved,” said Fred. “Confront us, please, with our accusers.”
“And that Lord Montdidier, with whom you have been traveling, became so disgusted with your conduct that he refused to land with you at this port as he at first intended!”
We all three gasped. The first thing that occurred to me, and I suppose to all of us, was to send for Monty. His steamer was not supposed to sail for an hour yet. But the thought had hardly flashed in mind when we heard the roar of steam and clanking as the anchor chain came home. The sound traveled over water and across roofs like the knell of good luck — the clanking of the fetters of ill fate.
“Where’s her next stop?” said I.
“Suez,” Fred answered.
Simultaneously then to all three the thought came too that this interpretation of Monty’s remaining on board was exactly what we wanted. The more people suspected us of acting independently of him the better.
“Confront us with our accusers!” Fred insisted.
“You are not accused — at least not legally,” said the collector. “You are refused rifle and ammunition permits, that is all.”
“On the ground of being ivory hunters?”
“Suspected persons — not known to the government — something rather stronger than rumor to your discredit, and nothing known in your favor.”
“What recourse have we?” Fred demanded.
“Well — what proof can you offer that you are bona fide travelers or intending settlers? Are you ivory hunters or not?”
“I’ll answer that,” said Fred — dexterously I thought, “when I’ve seen a copy of the game laws. We’re law-abiding men.”
The collector handed us a well thumbed copy of the Red Book.
“They’re all in that,” he said. “I’ll lend it to you, or you can buy one almost anywhere in town. If you decide after reading that to go farther up country I’m willing to issue provisional game licenses, subject to confirmation after I’ve looked into any evidence you care to submit on your own behalf. You can have your guns against a cash deposit—”
“How big?”
“Two hundred rupees for each gun!”
Fred laughed. The demand was intended to be away over our heads. The collector bridled.
“But no ammunition,” he went on, “until your claim to respectability has been confirmed. By the way, the only claim you’ve made to me is for the guns. You’ve told me nothing about yourselves.”
“Two hundred a gun?” said Fred. “Counting a pistol or revolver as one? Three guns apiece — nine guns — eighteen hundred rupees’ deposit?”
The collector nodded with a sort of grim pleasure in his own unreasonableness. Fred drew out our new check book.
“You fellows agreeable?” he asked, and we nodded.
“Here’s a check on the Mombasa Bank for ten thousand, and your government can have as much more again if it wants it,” he said. “Make me out a receipt please, and write on it what it’s for.”
The collector wrote. He was confused, for he had to tear up more than one blank.
“I suppose we get interest on the money at the legal local rate?” asked
Fred maliciously.
“I’ll inquire about that,” said the collector.
“Excuse me,” said Fred, “but I’m going to give you some advice. While you’re inquiring, look into the antecedents of Lady Isobel Saffren Waldon! It’s she who gave out the tip against us. Her tip’s a bad one. So is she.”
“She hasn’t applied for guns or a license,” the collector answered tartly. “It’s people who want to carry firearms — people able and likely to make trouble whom we keep an eye on.”
“She’s more likely to make trouble for you than a burning house!” put in Will Yerkes. “If my partner hadn’t paid you that check I’d be all for having this business out! I’m going to let them know in the States what sort of welcome people receive at this port!”
“You came of your own accord. You weren’t invited,” the collector answered.
“That’s a straight-out lie!” snapped Will. “You know it’s a lie! Why, there isn’t a newspaper in South Africa that hasn’t been carrying ads of this country for months past. Even papers I’ve had sent me from the States have carried press-agent dope about it. Why, you’ve been yelling for settlers like a kid squalling for milk — and you say we’re not invited now we’ve come here! I’m going to write and tell the U. S. papers what that dope is worth!”
“Ivory hunters are not settlers,” the collector interjected.
“Who said we’re ivory hunters?” Will was in a fine rage, and Fred and I leaned back to enjoy the official’s discomfort. “Besides, your ads bragged about the big game as one of the chief attractions! All the information you can possibly have against us must have come from a female crook in the pay of the German government! You’re not behaving the way gentlemen do where I was raised!”
“There is no intention to offend,” said the collector.
“Intention is good!” said Will, laughing in spite of himself. “There’s another thing I want to know. What about ammunition? We’re to have our guns. They’re useless without cartridges. What about it?”
“The guns shall be sent to your hotel tonight. The provisional sporting licenses — if you want them — will be ready tomorrow morning — seven hundred and fifty rupees apiece — I’ll charge them against your deposit. If the licenses should be confirmed after inquiry, I will send you permits through the post for fifty rounds of ammunition each.”
Will snorted. Fred Oakes ye
lled with laughter, and I gaped with indignation.
“I’m going into this to the hilt!” spluttered Fred. “I wouldn’t have missed it for a fortune! We three are going to constitute ourselves a committee of inspection. We’re going to wander the country over and report home to the newspapers — South African — British — U. S. A. — and any other part of the world that’s interested! We won’t worry about ammunition. Send us permits for whatever quantity seems to you proper, and we’ll note it all down in our diaries!”
We all stood up, the collector obviously uncomfortable and we, if not at ease, at least happier than we had been.
Fred nodded to the collector genially, and we all walked out.
Mombasa is a fairly large island, but the built-over part of it is small, so it was not surprising that we should emerge from the office face to face with Lady Saffren Waldon. She was the one surprised, not we. She probably thought she had spiked our guns in that part of the world forever, and the sight of us coming laughing from the very office where we should have been made glum must have been disconcerting.
She was riding on one of the little trolley-cars, pushed by two boys in white official uniform, dressed in her flimsiest best, a lace parasol across her knee, and beside her an obvious member of the government — young, and so recently from home as not to have lost his pink cheeks yet.
Had there not been an awning over the trolley-car she might have used the parasol to make believe she had not seen us. But the awning precluded that, and we were not more than two or three yards away.
“Laugh!” whispered Fred.
So we crossed the track laughing and the trolley had to pause to let us by. We laughed as we raised our helmets to her — laughed both at her and at the pink and white puppy she had taken in leash. And then the sort of thing happened that nearly always does when men with a reasonable faith in their own integrity make up their minds to see opprobrium through. Fate stepped hard on our arm of the balance.
