They encountered a strange species of monkeys, saw rodents with long plume-like tails, and others with ears like a rabbit’s. All was set against a panorama of distant peaks, deep gorges, and sometimes sheer basalt walls rising from the plain.
They were east of Kassala and nearing the realm of a local chief, a brigand who claimed to be the son of Mek Nimr, the “Lion King” the Turks had run out of Soudan. The vengeful son Mek was purging the villages of Muslims, but here there were no signs of raids. Nevertheless, when they overtook a group of Christian missionaries, it added to their feeling of security to travel near their caravan the rest of the way to Gallabat.
Situated on the banks of the Atbara, the town scattered across the valley. Sam chose a camp site east of the river at the base of a steep bluff. They planned to stay only long enough to search the local market for supplies brought in by way of the Red Sea ports. From Sam’s hunting trips, he kept rhino horns and animal skins to trade perhaps for medical supplies and a few luxuries such as English biscuits or other European sweets.
Scarcely had they begun to unload when a uniformed horseman approached them to announce that Mek Nimr expected them an hour after sundown, and he pointed toward a stone fortress atop the bluff. It was a commanding place for a sheik, but didn’t look an inviting one.
“That was not an invitation, it’s a summons,” Sam said. “I don’t want you to come. I’ll take one of the men.”
“Whatever it is you expect, I want to be with you.”
“He’ll want to know my business in this territory. The interrogation could be unpleasant.”
“Perhaps, but he might also be offended if you appear with a servant or a body guard. I think I should go with you.”
“I hadn’t considered that.”
They went together, bringing a gift the sheikh ignored at first. His flowing white robes billowed as he led them to two straight-backed chairs and then arranged himself on a divan. He stared from under heavy black brows as he asked where they had been, what nation they served, and what brought them to this region.
He listened to their plan for reaching Khartoum and for an adventurous hunt in that region. That they would spend time in Soudan did not please him, and he demanded an oath from Sam that he would not give officials there any information.
He peered at Sam intently for several minutes before saying he believed Sam was not spying for the Turks. Then he rose and showed them to a balcony overlooking the valley, his valley, he said, and only a part of a country that would flourish when all the invaders had been driven out. He then clapped his hands for the servant, who came with a tray of glasses and a carafe of wine. After they had lifted their glasses, he took notice of their gift and appeared greatly pleased by the rhino horn.
During dinner at a table that could have seated thirty or more, Mek Nimr made a flowery speech about Florence’s charm and inquired about Sam’s hunting experiences. By the time they were enjoying strong black coffee on the balcony, he asked if he might help them in any way. When Sam told him what he wanted from the market, the sheikh boasted that his traders could and would procure items from any place on earth.
The next day the desired items were delivered to their camp along with a gift of three sheep and a goat. The gifts and the man’s generosity pleased Sam and Florence and made their trip through the market a pleasant excursion. They traded away the items they brought there and found most of those they needed.
From Gallabat, the river flowed northwest toward the Berber junction some 400 miles away. As soon as they were away from the bluffs, they would head west toward the Blue Nile’s tributaries. Within two days they were on hard ground that stretched to the horizon and provided a firm footing for the animals. Vegetation grew sparse and limited to occasional clusters. The temperatures rose well above what they had become accustomed to, yet did not reach 100 degrees.
They were glad to be wearing the new cotton tunics and trousers, which allowed air to circulate and cool them by evaporation. The clothes met another test at the Rahad River, where the ford was deeper than most, and all they wore proved to be lightweight even sopping wet, and then quick to dry as they rode.
“Excellent work, Florence! Practical and comfortable.”
“I’m really pleased. No man can imagine wearing skirts and petit-skirts. Isn’t it odd what people put up with?”
“Not at all. We often endure discomforts and inconvenience without complaint, thinking that being miserable is a test of character when it is more likely a failure of the imagination.”
“Exceptions are, of course, the Arabs and the Blacks, who dress sensibly, even handsomely, for the climate.”
“A good point. I’m not sure what reasons most white men, myself included, choose to suffer rather than to follow native customs. Still, I can’t quite see myself parading about in flowing caftans or gallabiahs.”
“I can, and I shall see that you acquire some and wear them, at least for me.”
After another week they crossed the Dinder River, and only one more stretch of rocky desert remained before they might reach the Blue Nile. They felt as if the air they breathed was on fire one fierce day when they overtook a solitary man slouching along astride a donkey and leading another bearing a load of tattered bundles. His shoulders bent around his hollow chest, and his hat hid all of his face except a scraggly beard.
“Halloo!” Sam called out. “You’re an unexpected sight.”
As they drew near, the man lifted the hat and squinted up at them with eyes sunk in a gaunt face.
“Englishers! How do you come here?” he croaked. “I am Johann Schmidt, carpenter, from Hanover.”
“And you are alone in the wilderness, like Jesus. He was a carpenter, too,” Sam replied. “Tell us what you came to build in Africa.”
“You do not look like missionaries.”
“No, we do not and are not. We travel for our pleasure, to learn, but not to reform.”
“Then God be thanked. Enough I’ve had of them, already. Excuse my voice. I haven’t used it for some days.”
Schmidt’s watery eyes shone with interest as they told him where their journey began and where it might end. He said he’d been coaxing his animals from one water hole to the next, hoping to reach Khartoum and find a doctor to treat his persistent fever and cough. He had parted with a missionary group when he found they were setting out to convert the Abyssinian Jews with copies of the New Testament in Tigre, a local dialect that neither the missionaries nor most Abyssinians understood; furthermore, in their medicine chests, the labels had come off nearly all the bottles.
“Foolish, but well-intentioned, I suppose,” Sam said.
“That may be. I knew I could be no help to them.”
Sam’s eyes searched Florence’s to be sure she shared his sympathy before asking Johann. “Would you like to join our safari to Khartoum?”
Johann accepted with a shy nod, and before long his shyness vanished and his hoarse voice grew accustomed to speech. In Alexandria, he said, he’d waited for an employer who hadn’t shown up, and he met the missionaries, who arrived from Bremen and were on their way to establish a mission in Abyssinia. They said they could use a carpenter, so he went with them as far as Souakim, a Red Sea port where slavers and all manner of renegades thronged the waterfront.
“Already, I regretted my association with missionaries. So impractical they are. And the filthy port disgusted me. Quick I decided to make my own way. To Berber I wanted to go, but the desert was for me too much. So I go with the rivers. Now, here I am, not lost but glad to be found!”
“It’s good fortune all around, then.”
“I hoped the desert would help cure my cough.”
“We have medicines that may make you more comfortable.”
“We have the Sofis’ herbs, too,” Florence added. “And good food that will give you strength.”
Achmed insisted on exchanging his horse for Johann’s donkey, and they were able to cover twenty-five miles a day. When he had t
he opportunity, Sam asked Florence how she felt about Johann going with them when they left Khartoum.
“It’s a good idea. Being on the river might clear up his cough.”
“He needs to consult a physician in Khartoum.”
“Of course. Do you think he might stay with us there?”
“If there’s room at the consulate. I can’t be sure.”
“Oh, Sam, we mustn’t leave him alone. He’s very ill.”
“I know.”
As June drew to an end, they approached the Blue Nile below Sennar, where the river ran high at the peak of the spring flood. Its banks were already green, and they camped for two nights and enjoyed again the miracle of water on the desert. The herders waded into the shallows with their animals, and Achmed carried water to the tent for Florence’s tub while Sam and Johann bathed in a deep wadi near the camp.
In the evening as they sipped brandy under the stars, Sam and Johann shared all they knew about Khartoum, and none of it suggested that the visit there would be an agreeable experience. It was the seat of government. Sam would report their presence and secure permission for further travel. He hoped there would be no trouble that couldn’t be cleared up in the time it would take to provision and staff another dahabiah and noggur.
Within the week while crossing a high ridge, they saw Khartoum through dust and shimmering heat and despite their low expectations, felt eager to get there. The air grew thick with smoke from smoldering trash heaps as they passed a garrison that blended with the land near the outskirts of the city. No guard was on his feet, but lounging in the shade of the fortress walls were a dozen of Moosa Pasha’s armed peace keepers, looking like a filthy rabble. They went on slapping down the cards or rolling dice, not more than two or three of them even looking up as the caravan passed. From somewhere beyond the walls a caterwauling erupted, followed by the sound of breaking glass. A gang of children in rags trotted along beside the camels, crying out for baksheesh and pulling at cargo bindings. Several barking dogs joined their begging pack, and Sam shouted at them in Arabic to get away. All retreated but one boy, who ran in silence beside them until Sam tossed him a coin and asked what he wanted to keep away the thieves and beggars while guiding them to the British compound.
The boy led the caravan through narrow, crowded streets that meandered among grim and dilapidated houses and shops. In places they forced their way through noisy crowds, jostled by scowling men astride donkeys, and besieged by beggars. It was usually impossible to steer away from open sewers, dung heaps, reeking garbage alive with maggots and remains of dead animals.
Often they had to detour to avoid an ox’s bloated carcass or a sump of garbage and offal.
Finally they reached an open area, a market where flies buzzed around sides of goats and lambs that hung under awnings. In stalls vegetables and fruits lay artfully arranged in baskets or on rugs, and fragrant spices mounded on trays caused Florence to sigh with relief and pleasure. Beyond the market the streets widened and men drank coffee or tea at small tables while veiled women walked by with their baskets.
Instead of dilapidated houses, they saw high walls with gates of iron bars where men stood guard. Within a mile, they faced another square of shaded stalls where women veiled in black fingered bolts of cloth. On the far side of the dusty ground a white-washed wall loomed, and in its center was a timber gate with iron strapping. Above it a brightly painted red and gold crest caught the sun, and its lions heralded the British presence.
Sam raised an arm to halt the caravan and rode alone across the square where he dismounted and yanked a bell rope. At once a miniature gate swung out at eye level, and he handed his papers in through the opening. He paced back and forth for ten minutes before the entire gate began to rise. A portly, white-robed Soudanese bowab and four other bowing servants waited, and Sam turned and beckoned Florence and Johann forward, then shouted to Achmed to come along, too, and lead Sam’s horse. When they were all inside, a servant led their drovers to the stables with their animals.
The bowab led the four through a garden of palms and bright blooming shrubs where fountains bubbled into pools, and here and there a cage held birds with splendid plumage. When they entered the consulate’s cool foyer, a young house servant, safragi, took Achmed to the servants’ quarters while another led Sam, Florence, and Johann up two flights of marble stairs to their rooms. In limited, precise English the servant explained that Consul John Petherick was away but that the staff expected them and would, of course, serve them well.
“I had no idea you had such good friends here,” Johann said. “I am very fortunate to be with you. Now I shall go to bathe and sleep. Thank you, my friends.”
Alone in a dressing room off their bedchamber, Florence and Sam shed their dusty garments and dropped them on the shiny floors. The clothes, Sam assured Florence, would reappear clean, pressed, and mended in their cupboards. Then together they sank up to their chins in a large tiled pool of fragrant water.
Afterward wrapping themselves in thick, soft towels, they chose silk caftans from those of various sizes that hung in an armoire. A servant had been in while they bathed, and all their soiled garments were gone. On a marble table were baskets of fruit and warm pastries and a carafe of wine. An amphora of water cooled on a stand near doors that opened onto a balcony where cushioned rattan chairs were arranged beside a low table.
At the balcony’s rail, Sam put an arm around Florence as they looked out across the flame trees, and to the north saw the muddy blue-green turbulence of the Blue Nile invade the viscous gray of the White. To the west and south, lay green, irrigated patches and palm groves, and beyond them pale sands stretched all the way to the sinking red disk of the sun.
“This is hard to believe, Sam.” She leaned her head against his chest and sighed, “I knew you’d look handsome in a caftan.”
“You’re very beautiful, Florence.”
“It’s hard to believe a place like this exists in the midst of this squalid city.”
“Walls, behind more walls. Civilization hides itself here.”
* * *
Florence sipped tea and gazed dreamily toward the horizon, her book open on her lap, while Sam sorted and read year-old papers and letters forwarded from Cairo. Finished reading the letters from his daughters, he handed them to Florence as casually as if he had always done so, then sighed.
“Life has offered me more riches than I am able to enjoy.”
His strange tone and her own feelings prevented her from responding. The letters were pieces of Sam’s life, his “riches,” in which she had no part. Besides references to strangers, they held shy, formal expressions of affection for him. Their claim on him separated his life with them from the one she shared. Her confidence and security slipped away as envy and jealousy crept into her heart. Passing family letters to her was, she knew, a gesture meant to include her, but it left her forlorn.
Florence had never read the journals he wrote in every day, had simply not been curious to see what aspect of their travels he recorded. But passing behind him the next day when he was absorbed in writing, she glanced over his shoulder and read what he had just written: “I arrived at Khartoum, capital of the Soudan provinces, on 11 June 1862. Having had ample warning, I was not astonished by the squalor and filth of its narrow and teeming streets.”
In that glance, she saw no sign that he was not alone, no mention of a companion taking part in Sam’s adventures. It made little difference whether he kept her a secret from his family or from the public, but it did seem unnecessary for him to omit her from his journal.
She walked out of the room and up the stairs. Closing the door to their bedroom, she sat down at the dressing table and absently rearranged the hand mirror, combs, and lotions in glass vials. She picked up the hairbrush, plucked hairs from it, and deposited them in the hole in the top of a small porcelain pot made for just that purpose. It was an odd piece of bric-a-brac, and she started a laugh that caught in her throat and became a sob, and she sl
ammed her brush down. Why should she care what he said in his journal?
In the two years they had been in Africa, she had been Sam’s true partner in everything. And she believed he loved her. Even the Coptic priest could see their bond, yet she meant so little that he didn’t acknowledge her existence in his record. When he wrote not we but I, that small word pointed to an answer she did not like to the question she dared not ask. Why had he never said they would marry?
* * *
When Sam had finished his paper work, he went to their room and found Florence sitting in front of the mirror dabbing at her face with cotton wool.
“You’re ready for a life of idleness and vanity, eh? But what need have you for beauty potions?”
“It’s a change, I admit, for me to preen so. It’s cucumbers and yogurt. The woman who returned our clothes left it here, so she must think I need help.” She dipped the cotton wool into the bowl again and rubbed her tanned face. “Perhaps she thinks I don’t look like a lady.”
“Servants are snobs. We’ll see how Petherick’s wife looks. In this place, a woman would have to stay inside or under a parasol every minute to keep her skin pale. You look just fine, but if I’m not mistaken, you’ve already lost some of your ruddy color.”
Sam sat on the bed and watched Florence put aside the beauty potion and, with her back to him, begin brushing her hair. “Petherick took his wife with him up the river, and I hear they may be having a rough time of it. They were carrying extra medicine and food, on the chance they would meet Speke and Grant. Now they may all be in need of rescue.”
“You are saying they’ve been lost?”
“Well, no, but they are all overdue. The Consul was eager to know if they’ve settled Speke’s claim of finding the Nile’s source when he was with Burton. Rumor has it they’ve encountered slavers or warring tribes or they are down with malaria.” Sam paused and sighed. He assumed she was listening, but it was not easy, talking to the back of her head.
“I refuse to credit rumor. John Petherick is an experienced colonial officer. However, his absence complicates matters for us. We can go nowhere until we obtain official stamps on our papers. He could help. As it is, I suppose I shall have to beg for appointments and wait for interviews with the Viceroy of Upper Egypt. I detest waiting in antechambers, filling endless forms like some clerk.”