A Tale of Two Brothers (eBook)

Arrival at Suakin

A tall officer and his aide, carrying a leather suitcase, both wearing pith helmets and khaki uniforms, step out of a dinghy in Suakin. It is 7 March 1885. Before them, many generations of caravans had travelled along the coast from the interior of Abyssinia and Sudan and met up with the ships here that transported their goods to other regions. Even the Queen of Sheba is reported to have disembarked from her ship here on route to Egypt.

The two men are heading towards the Hanafi mosque. The officer, Padre Reginald Collins, already knows the way, having been here during the British Expeditionary Corps' spring campaign. They join the crowd of helmeted British soldiers in sweaty khaki uniforms, proud Turkish officials, Egyptian fusiliers, recognizable by their red tarbush and white uniforms, and bearded Indian mercenaries with artfully tied orange Dastars, turbans that hide their uncut hair.

The Padre’s appearance is sufficiently impressive that even distracted passers-by notice him. He has sharp, penetrating black eyes, which give his countenance the expression of lively alertness. He is about forty and slender. His aide-de-camp, Shanahan, is younger by several years, has brown eyes, and his broad chin betrays a strong will.

As they move through the narrow streets, the Padre points out to Shanahan that the houses and mosques of Suakin resemble those in Turkish ports on the Red Sea like Jeddah or Massawa, except that in Suakin, the walls are hewn from coral. On their way, they cross a veritable army of pilgrims in white galabias and elaborately curved turbans.

Behind them, the white HMS Jumna shines in the blazing morning sun. She dropped anchor beyond the bay, for the entrance is narrow and the coral reef too dangerous for a warship of its draft. The dinghy that took them to shore, had passed the quarantine island for Mecca pilgrims on the right, then then past Condenser Island with its slender, obelisk-like chimney, important during the 1884-85 campaign as the starting point of the Suakin Berber line, and finally landed them at the customs house in the north of the town.

The men continue along the tamped sand alleys, which narrow as they eventually lead to the souk. Wheeled traffic is unknown here and they stride past loaded camels and their Arab drivers on the way to the caravanserai in Geyf. Nubians with fully loaded baskets on their shoulders, Hadendowas, dressed only in a loincloth, Hadrerebes and Bejas, who are the indigenous people of the land on the other side of the island, and veterans of past Dervish wars drift along in the oncoming stream of people. The loud confusion of Beidawi and Khasa languages, dominated by Arabic, echoes off the walls of the houses, as do the voices of Portuguese and Greek merchants who store their goods under torn tarpaulins and trade loudly with any potential customers.

In their displays are shiny fish and half carcasses of raw meat dangling from butcher's hooks, covered by swarms of flies. On the ground are cages with poultry, leered at by wild dogs, heavy sacks filled to the brim with spices, exotic goods, carpets, necklaces and bracelets, swords and caftans, all offered at bargain prices. On one wall, Shanahan notices an old Dervish with an amputated hand who squats and begs, apparently a victim of Sharia law.

The light breeze that carried the smell of salty seaweed from the harbour has given way in the narrow streets to a strong odour of dusty cattle, pungent incense, garlic and onion, Turkish tobacco, biting urine and sour sweat.

The Padre and his aide-de-camp leave the market and head towards the Gordon Gate and the expeditionary corps headquarters at House Beit Sham. Two guards salute the arrivals at the entrance of the three-storey Turkish-style house. As Collins explains, Major Graham is expecting them. Roshans from the second-floor cast shade over the men. Now they go through the gate into the courtyard, where the officer on guard asks them their business.

“Major General Graham is expecting us.”

The officer points to a door on the right across the courtyard. On it is written “General”. The Padre knocks, and a deep voice bids him enter. General Graham, a sixfoot-tall giant, smoothes his walrus moustache and rises to greet the new arrivals. He is a veteran of Victorian campaigns, who fought with the expeditionary armies in the Crimea and China.

“Father Collins, glad to see you back to your old self. How was the hospital ship? Nasty case of sunstroke you suffered; glad your eyesight wasn’t affected. I envied you your stopover in England, and quite apparently, that certainly helped with your recovery!”

“Thank you, General. Full thanks to the doctors and their good care, my recovery was swift, and I am now back again to continue my duties.” The Padre then introduces his companion, aide-de-camp Shanahan.

The general invites them both to sit down and offers them a drink, which both politely decline. He opens a folder, takes out papers, which he skims, and then addresses the Padre with a serious but benevolent expression: “You joined the army in 1879 as a Catholic field preacher; stationed in Aldershot until 1882; a state scholarship from Her Majesty's Government to learn Arabic. Ah, interesting, your command of the language is going to be useful to us. In 1882, you took part in the Battle of Tel-El-Kebir. I see a letter from General Wolseley praising your bravery, and a Khedive medal to boot, for having succeeded in getting through to some Indian troops, at great personal risk, to stop them from mistakenly firing at a detachment of British troops. (I do say, it’s quite noisy in here, but we must keep the windows open; my apologies.) There is also a note here saying that your comrades also admired your self-sacrifice during the cholera epidemic in Alexandria that same year. After a stay in England, you are now back with us. Padre, I am proud to have you in my regiment. Many of our Irish-born soldiers remember you. Will they have a chance to welcome you back at Mass this Sunday?”

“That is indeed my intention, Sir”, replies the smiling Padre.

“Our main camp is on the mainland”, continues the General,” in the Geyf, where you and your aide will occupy an officer's tent. As for the Mass, we will need something larger than an officer’s tent, the sun is murderous.” He pauses briefly, then continues, “I will make the necessary arrangements.”

They stand and salute and Graham invites the men to join the officer’s table in the mess that evening. Then the Padre and his orderly leave the headquarters.

“Shanahan, I think we need a drink, don’t you? I’ll introduce you to a Portuguese friend, Olivera da Figuera, who has a store and a bar here. Will you join me?”

Da Figuera lives in a side street of the souk, where he runs a drinking establishment. On the first floor, in two adjoining rooms, there are several tables. About a dozen guests sip tea, puff shisha or play checkers. The Padre and his orderly take a seat at an empty table. A young Hadendowa recognizable by the tufts of frizzy hair at his temples and on the crown of his head asks what they would like. The Padre replies that he would like to speak to Señor da Olivera da Figuera. The boy then calls the innkeeper over.

“Father Collins! How good to see you. I trust that you are quite well again? Last year, if my memory serves me correctly, I think it was the end of May, you suffered heatstroke, with a high fever and needed to be treated on the hospital ship. I can still remember how you were transported to the harbour in a dhoolie.” Da Figuera isshort, broad-shouldered, and wears a blue shirt with an open collar.

“Yes, I have recovered very well, thank you, thanks to the good care on the hospital ship and a stay in England.”

Shanahan notices Da Figuera’s rolled-up sleeves revealing powerful arms and hands covered with frizzy, dark hair. He is waiting beside Collins, holding his helmet in his hands until after he is introduced.

Da Figuera then turns to Shanahan with a broad, welcoming smile and says, “The Padre's friends are my friends, so why don't you both come up to the second floor, where we'll be undisturbed.”

Up a wooden staircase and along a small corridor there is a room where guests are received in private, a majlis. The corner room has two roshans, one of which overlooks the souk, the other the side alley where the entrance to the coffee house is located. Through the half-timbered window on the souk side one can see the tower of Condenser Island in the distance, and through the other the Muslim cemetery on the mainland to the east as well as the two domes of tombs of revered sheikhs.

“You have to be careful in the coffee house on the first floor; the walls have ears,” whispers the publican.

The Padre turns to Shanahan: “Spies from Osman Digna, the representative of the Mahdi in the Eastern Sudan, are trying to learn as much as possible about the intentions of our expeditionary force.”

Before sitting cross-legged on the cushions on the floor, Collins loosens his belt. While Olivera sits there comfortably in his galabija, Shanahan has trouble in his tight-fitting uniform and also has to loosen his belt a bit.

A Hadendowa servant brings a decanter and fills small glasses with a cloudy liquid that he dilutes with ice water.

“You must try my mastic!” Says Da Figuera, waving his arm in an expansive gesture.

The servant then places a large platter of...