the ragged crew stared down at the ferry. They were a mixed batch,
Arab, Indian, Chinese, Negro and there was no answer to his hail.
Standing in the ferry, Gareth cupped his hands to his mouth and,
with the Englishman's unconscious arrogance that assumes all the world
speaks English, called again.
'I want to speak to your captain.' Now there was a stir under the poop
and a white man came to the rail. He was swarthy, darkly sunburned and
so short that his head barely showed above the gunwale.
'What you want? You police, hey?' Gareth guessed he was Greek or
Armenian. he wore a dark patch over one eye, and the effect was
theatrical. The good eye was bright and stony as water-washed agate.
'No police!' Gareth assured him. 'No trouble,' and produced the
whisky bottle from his coat pocket and waved it airily.
The Captain leaned out over the rail and peered closely at Gareth.
Perhaps he recognized the twinkle in the eye and the jaunty piratical
smile that Gareth flashed up at him. It often takes one to know one.
Anyway, he seemed to reach a decision and he snapped an order in
Arabic. A rope ladder tumbled down the side.
'Come,' invited the Captain. He had nothing to hide.
On this leg of his voyage he carried only a cargo of baled cotton goods
from Bombay. He would discharge this here at Dares Salaam before
continuing northwards to make a nocturnal landfall on the great horn of
Africa, there to take on his more lucrative cargo of human wares.
As long as the merchants of Arabia, India and the East still offered
huge sums for the slender black girls of the Danakil and Galla,
men like this would brave the British warships and patrol boats to
supply them.
'I thought we might drink a little whisky together and talk about
money,' Gareth greeted the Captain. 'My name is Swales. Major
Swales.' The Captain had trained his oiled black hair into a queue
that hung down his back. He seemed to cultivate the buccaneer image.
'My name is Papadopoulos.' He grinned for the first time.
'And the talk of money is sweet like music.' He held out his hand.
Gareth and Vicky Camberwell came to Jake's camp in the mahogany forest,
bearing gifts.
'This is a surprise,' Jake greeted them sardonically as he straightened
up from the welding set with the torch still flaring in his hand. 'I
thought you two had eloped.'
'Business first, pleasure later.' Gareth handed Vicky down from the
ricksha. 'No, my dear Jake, we have been working hard.' J can see
that. You look really worn out with your labours.' Jake doused the
welding torch and accepted the bucket of Tusker beer. He broached two
bottles -immediately, handing one to Greg and lifting the other to his
own lips. He wore only a pair of greasy khaki shorts.
When he lowered it, he grinned. 'But, what the hell, I was dying of
thirst and so I forgive you.'
'You have saved our lives, Major
Swales and Miss Camberwell,' agreed Greg, and saluted them with the de
wed bottle.
