BURALLEH ROBLEH AND HIS EXCELLENCY.
("Personages.")[Frontispiece.

SUN, SAND
AND SOMALS
LEAVES FROM THE NOTE-BOOK
OF A DISTRICT COMMISSIONER
IN BRITISH SOMALILAND

BY
MAJOR H. RAYNE, M.B.E., M.C.

WITH 12 PLATES FROM PHOTOGRAPHS

LONDON
H. F. & G. WITHERBY
326 HIGH HOLBORN, W.C.
1921

INTRODUCTION

Africa is gradually becoming so civilised that there are few places left where the adventurer (the man who holds a human life as cheaply as the sportsman holds that of a wild pheasant) may hope to flourish. But for such an individual there remains on the Eastern Abyssinian border a territory, difficult to penetrate, inhabited by wild warlike tribes, through whom can be carried out a policy of murder and rapine against the peaceful native tribes under British protection. And on the Abyssinian borders you may find him, ever ready to organise a wild raid South or East (or West for that matter) into the administered territories of the British, whose sentinel-outposts are ever watching and waiting to turn him from his prey. Of the tribes inhabiting this wild border-land I have selected from many but one to speak of—the Somali of British Somaliland.

The Somali has deeply religious tendencies and is the stoutest of Mussulmans. In addition to the Mahomedan code, which he obeys implicitly, he has a complicated tribal code of his own. He knows much, and practises what he knows, of the old Jewish and Biblical hygienic laws. He recognises the right of man to slay, providing he pays—one hundred camels for a man, fifty for a woman. The Somali respects a woman, and reverences chastity.

The Somali wanders afar. You will find him working as deck hand, fireman, or steward, on all the great liners trading to the East. I know of a Somali tobacconist in Cardiff, a Somali mechanic in New York, and a Somali trader in Bombay, the latter of whom speaks French, English, and Italian fluently. The Somali considers that British magistrates are appointed to his country solely to relieve the monotony of his life, and he pesters theirs with all kinds of cases, both petty and intricate.

The Somali in his own country is conservative. He has little time for men not of his own race, excepting perhaps the Arab Mullahs, a few of whom wander amongst his people teaching the great "Mahomedan truths." He is never internally at rest. His tribe is divided into sections, sub-sections and clans, and the clans are for ever disagreeing amongst themselves. The sub-sections then interfere, and it may so happen that quarrels extend to the sections. If these are not settled the result may be much bloodshed. But it is always here that the British administration steps in, and to it nowadays the Somali turns to settle his domestic affairs when they get beyond his control.

In 1920 I was privileged to take part in the successful operations carried out against that great adventurer, Hassan Abdullah, the Mad Mullah, and with him these pages end. They portray only the human side of life on a wild African outpost, and describe the men and incidents recorded exactly as I have seen them, and as they have occurred. For fuller information I refer the reader to the official reports and the works of more conventional writers.

H. R.

[CONTENTS]

[LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS]

[SUN, SAND AND SOMALS]

[CHAPTER I]

ZEILA

Early history—Slave trade—Gen. Gordon—Somali tribes.

Zeila is a port on the British Somaliland coast. It lies some twenty-eight miles South of the French port of Djibouti, and is one hundred and seventy miles North-East of the Abyssinian town of Harrar. Little is known of its history, but here is the story of the "oldest inhabitant" for what it is worth. In essential details it is fairly accurate.

Sheikh Sa'du-d-din was the first Arab of importance to visit the place. He occupied the island named after him, situated a few miles North of the present town. There he built stone houses, and a large tank to preserve and store the rain water. The island is a dreary, waterless waste of sand, so what more natural than that the good man, who was a strict Mahomedan and a great warrior, should vary the monotony of existence by crossing to the mainland to raid and convert the heathen Galla, who grazed their herds in the vicinity of the present town.

The Sheikh married a woman from the Dowa people who lived between the Danakils and the Abyssinians. When he was killed his progeny found their way back to their mother's town, where their descendants are still to be found. This town of Dowa or Daoua has, according to my informant, a custom or law that forbids any unmarried Mahomedan man to sleep within its precincts for even one night. Immediately on arrival the stranger is provided with a wife, who remains with him as long as he lives in the town. Should he leave it he may take neither wife nor children away.

For many years after the Sheikh's death no one knows what happened, but it would appear that Arab traders began regularly to visit the Somali coast, where they carried on a lucrative trade by exchanging grain and cloth for coffee, ivory, and other products, brought in from the high country round Harrar. At first these Arabs did not make their homes on the coast, but returned at the end of every season to Arabia. Probably the first residents at Zeila were renegade Arabs, guilty of some unpurged offence in their own country, to which they were afraid to return. When the other traders went away these men built huts and settled down. As nothing happened to them, and they probably did very well, their more honest brethren followed their example in taking up their permanent residence on the coast. In this way began the town of Zeila.

The first Arab Governor, "headman" would be a more correct title, known to my informant was called Syyed. He cannot remember his full name. Syyed it was who built a wall around the town for purposes of defence, and his great-grandson, a carpenter by profession, lives in Zeila to-day. One fine day there came to Syyed the Governor, a Somal, by name Sharmarki Ali, to report his arrival and intention of relieving the former of his arduous duties. They were very casual in those days, and as this was the first Syyed had heard of Sharmarki Ali he exerted himself with such success to procure Sharmarki's departure that the latter found it most expedient to revisit Hodeida, from which port he had come, on urgent private affairs.

These attended to—they included the fitting out of a force of fifty Somals, armed with muzzle loading guns and two cannon—Sharmarki chartered two dhows and returned with his army to Zeila. This time nothing would induce him to go away. There was a violent argument which Sharmarki settled by loading up his two cannon to the muzzle with powder and sand and firing them close to the walls of the town. Syyed and his followers, who had never heard anything like the tremendous explosions made by these guns in their lives before, became afraid and ran away.

Sharmarki entered the town in triumph, assumed the governorship, made overtures to the friendly disposed tribes in the surrounding district, and was comfortably lining his pockets when history made arrangements to repeat itself. The Governor of Hodeida, ever short of cash, was bribed by one Abubakr Ibrahim Shebani, nowadays better known as Abubakr Basha, a Danakil, to fit him out with a small force of good soldiers which would be unlikely to run away from a big noise, for the purpose of taking Zeila. Without doubt the Governor of Hodeida considered he was leasing Zeila by contract, as he was quite entitled to do. Abubakr Basha convinced Sharmarki Ali that for his health's sake he required a change of air, and was left in charge of the town. This he proceeded to exploit in much the same way that all his adventurer-predecessors had done.

The next person of importance to put in an appearance came with no less than five hundred soldiers and ten cannon. He was an Egyptian Basha, and proceeded to take charge of Zeila in the name of his government. He called in all the Somal headmen with their followers from the district, and as many of these as arrived he placed under restraint; setting them to build a stone pier, which is still standing, though much improved upon. The townsmen were also forced to assist in this work. Even Abubakr Basha was employed in carrying stones. The pier completed a fort, now demolished, also a customs-house, were constructed, as a great trade had sprung up between the town and the interior; particularly with the town of Harrar, which now sent ivory, coffee, and slaves in exchange for the commodities it required, and which were procurable at Zeila from the many merchants who were beginning to settle there.

Having organised affairs at Zeila the Basha marched inland to Gildessa with three hundred soldiers. My informant says he went there to make friends with the Galla. Anyway, after he had been one three months a large steamer landed one thousand Egyptian soldiers at Zeila. These troops marched up country and joined the Basha. He then attacked the Galla. The latter's losses were heavy, but the Egyptians' could have been none too light as they were obliged to send for a reinforcement of five hundred men. Fighting continued for some months ere the Basha reached and captured his objective, Harrar. It is stated that after his arrival in this town he sent for the Amir of Harrar and caused him to be secretly put to death by having his neck broken. But the Gallas found out all about it and were so exasperated that hardly a day passed without one of the Egyptian soldiers being murdered.

To put an end to such a state of affairs the Basha ordered two hundred Galla prisoners to be nailed to the ground, crucifix fashion. Over some of these poor wretches boiling water was poured; then, if not already dead, they were killed, their heads cut off and these hung by the ears to a large tree, which, I am given to understand, survives to this day outside Harrar. And here ends the story as related to me by the old man of Zeila.

Meanwhile Abubakr Basha had been employed by the Egyptians as headman of Zeila, and when they evacuated the East coast, and the British established themselves in their stead in 1884, Abubakr was still living in the town, but died soon afterwards. Shortly before the evacuation General Gordon passed through the town on his way to Harrar. He made a great impression on the people, and is well remembered by the older people, who take a special delight in pointing out the house where he stayed.

Of course the first thing the British thought of was the suppression of the slave trade, and they took very thorough steps to this end. In its place they built up a trade in cloth and natural products, until, under their regime, Zeila reached the pinnacle of its prosperity. Had this trade not been with Abyssinia she would have remained prosperous, but, being so, other influences crept in and Zeila went under. After the Egyptians went away Harrar was handed over to the Amir Abdillahai who was responsible, in 1886, for the massacre of seven Italian gentlemen with their two servants, members of an Italian commercial and scientific expedition to Abyssinia. In 1887 Menelik marched on Harrar, met and put to flight the forces of the Amir some eight miles outside the town, which has remained in Abyssinian hands ever since. In 1888 the French landed at Djibouti, and the fate of Zeila was sealed. By constructing a railway to Dire Daouwa—now completed close to Adas Ababa—they captured the bulk of the Zeila trade, which remains in their hands until, perhaps, some day the spin of fortune's wheel may render again to Zeila all she has lost.

GENERAL GORDON'S HOUSE AT ZEILA.

The inhabitants are called Zeilawi, and are a mixed race of Arabs, Gallas, Abyssinians, Somals, Danakils, Soudanese, and others. They live by trade, but are gradually falling, like their houses, into decay. Related by marriage to the Somal tribes outside the town they have naturally a considerable influence over them, and lucky is he who in the old palmy days invested some of his trade profits in cattle, handing them over to his relations-at-law to be taken care of.

The first representative of our government was a consular agent appointed by the government of India. He built a fort—now in ruins—widened the pier, and made many other improvements. Water had to be carried from the wells of Tokusha, three miles away, so a fine masonry tank was built inside the fort, and in it our water is still stored.

The two Somal tribes coming directly under the Zeila agency were the Gadabursi and the Issa, both with "unenviable reputations" for treachery. As is the Somal custom each tribe is divided into sections; each section into sub-sections and the sub-sections are subdivided into rers or families. The Somal is proud of his pedigree, the average man being able to rattle off his family tree without drawing breath, right back to his presumed Arab ancestors. As a family of four or five brothers may marry four wives each, as they often do, it follows, if they band together and have many children, that quite a new rer or Jilib may be formed. In this way new and powerful rers spring into existence, whilst old ones are often wiped out. But the sections, and in a lesser degree the sub-sections, rarely change. For this reason the British found it convenient to continue the Egyptian system of employing representatives of the various clans, or families, to act as agents or go-betweens for the government among their own people. These men are called Akils, and as, to-day, we have thirty-six Issa and thirty-seven Gadabursi Akils on the district books, some idea of the number of clans and families into which these tribes are divided may be gathered.

The government utilises the system roughly thus: In Somaliland instead of giving a man's address you state (a) his tribe, (b) his tribal section, (c) his sub-section, (d) his rer if necessary. If he is wanted at court a biladier is sent to fetch him; with the above information concerning his tribal history no difficulty will be experienced in finding him, although the Somals are the most nomadic of people, and continually on the move. He is as well placed as Private Brown, of No. 1 Company, 1st Battalion, fortieth Regiment of General Green's army in the X Y Z campaign. Sometimes instead of sending a biladier to call him a wanted man's Akil may be ordered to produce him.

He may, or may not, refuse to accompany the biladier. The Akil may, or may not, produce him, but that does not affect the idea of the system, which is quite sound in theory and as satisfactory in practice as may be expected in a wild country like Somaliland. A biladier is a man employed as a special constable on any odd job. When sent into the district to call a man he is given a red ticket, stamped with the court seal as a badge of authority, and the meaning of this all Somals know. A man refusing to accompany him is nearly always caught in the long run; often when visiting the town in the belief that the affair has been forgotten and that he is safe; and, in addition to the matter he was originally wanted for, he has to answer the serious charge of refusing a biladier.

I sit on the veranda of the government house at Zeila. I look across at the pier and see, in imagination, men of many races, whose deeds are chronicled in the records stored in the office below. Of our own race Burton and Gordon appeal to me most of all. But they have gone, the men I am thinking of who walked along that pier into the town. Gone years ago, and their bare memory remains. But the Akils, the biladiers, and the old tribal troubles still exist. It is of these latter I would speak.

[CHAPTER II]

"ALL IN THE DAY'S WORK"

The staff—Office work—The "Poor Fund" and its distribution—A tale of woe—The D.C. on inspection rounds—Petitions.

The staff at Zeila consists of the District Commissioner, the District Clerk—an Indian gentleman—his Indian assistant, an Arab clerk and petition writer, an Indian sub-assistant surgeon, Mahomed the Somal interpreter, Buralli, or Buralleh, the sub-inspector of police—also a Somal—an Indian superintendent of customs, and an Arab outdoor collector of customs fees. There are half a dozen mounted police, thirty odd foot police, and a round dozen or so of water police under an Arab jemadar. Besides these we have many smaller fry, such as conservancy sweepers, messengers, a lamplighter, etc., etc. The Akils I have already spoken of. The foot police supply or furnish a guard for the jail, which is under the care of the jail-master, an ex-slave.

There is also a Kathi, or native magistrate, and an Arab schoolmaster. Further, we boast quite a number of pensioners, amongst whom are the keeper of the Sheikhs tomb, and Ferjallah Alone, an old Soudanese jemadar who accompanied Gordon from Egypt to Zeila, and subsequently took service in this country. Ferjallah is very old and feeble, and, as regards Gordon, most disappointing. To him Gordon is "Gordon," the greatest soldier that ever was. "What more than that do you want to know about him," says Ferjallah.

The D.C.'s office combines the work of treasury, court-house, post office, administration, tax collection, and every other public work of the town and district. It keeps an eye on trade, customs, shipping—such as there is (mostly dhows)—police, prisons, political and other situations. For all of these the District Commissioner is directly responsible to His Excellency the Governor of Somaliland. In addition he takes an interest in social matters, and may even, besides being sole guardian and presiding angel of the "Poor Fund," be called upon to assume the duties of food controller. Strangely enough he is not overworked.

Monday morning is usually the busiest time of the week. Since my arrival here I have arranged on that morning that all the poor people seeking relief shall come to the office. Such an arrangement is looked upon by the scallywags of the town as being tantamount to an invitation to parade with the paupers. Not only the scallywags but shameless old men and women of independent means take the opportunity—trusting to luck or an oversight on my part—to line up with the crowd and beg for a four—anna bit; something for nothing is always worth acquiring. But there is such a collection of cripples and genuine "masakins" (poor people), well known to the police, and ready to eat up our slender fund, that the impostors stand little chance of getting anything. Of course, the first thing to be done is to weed out these latter gentry and send them off with a word or two of discouragement. Then the people who have friends, or whose sections belong to the district, are separated from the absolutely friendless. The former are assisted to make representations to their people of their necessity. Caravans from the interior are approached and asked to help their tribal brethren. The bush Somals, if they have any money, often respond to such an appeal, giving their dole with a pious hope at the back of their minds that "Rubbama"[1] will book it up against them for the future good of their souls.

And the people who are left are cripples, some of whom crawl on all fours, frail bent old men and women, deformed children, the sight of whose withered twisted limbs and pathetic eyes would wring the last sixpence from anyone but a hard-hearted D.C., who is so used to looking at and seeing these things. Amongst these people we endeavour to divide, as fairly as possible, the moneys of our fund. Four annas, fourpence, will fill those empty stomachs for at least one day, and with care for two. One need have no fear that the money will go in drink; such things are not done here. When our fund is all gone we have a "whip-round" amongst the merchants of the town, who are, according to their means, a very charitable lot. Human nature is human nature all the world over, and who knows but that the D.C. secretly notes a generous donor as a man to be helped when the occasion arises. Some of the subscriptions are consequently very large; even as much as two or three rupees. Here, amongst these simple people, one realises that the Lord loveth a cheerful giver; provided, of course, that he is an "aggressively" cheerful giver—otherwise he might be overlooked.

Unlike other parts of Africa life in Somaliland is very hard for the poor and indigent, but is not, of course, comparable with life in Europe. Here, on the coast, no one is ever cold. The scantiest rags suffice for clothing, and the sand makes a comfortable bed. Poor though many of the people are they will not see a man die of starvation unless by helping him they are going to suffer themselves. It is necessary to remember that no ultra-humane, or excessively sensitive, race could hope to survive in this country. But there are always to be found people who seem to be perfectly incapable of taking care of themselves, just as there are people who are incapable of doing anything else.

The other day a poor tired woman, dressed in rags, and carrying a child on her back, complained that she had tramped the interior in a futile attempt to beg assistance for her child, and blind husband who was present in court. This old rascal then took up the tale of woe. He had a brother in the town, he said, who was perfectly well able to support him, and he hoped the D.C. would put the matter to the brother without delay.

"What about the woman," I asked. "I hear you have divorced her."

"Yes, I have divorced her, but she is looking after me as I am blind."

"And is this your child?" I asked.

"Yes," replied the old man who was not really blind.

"Well, we shall send for your brother, and meanwhile, as the woman is carrying this child and is tired out, you can have a rupee to buy food."

The couple then left the court.

The following day the woman reappeared to complain she was starving and tired out.

"I've carried this child for hundreds of miles. I am its mother, but I'm so tired I can't carry it any more—never again."

"But you had a rupee yesterday to buy food."

"Did you expect me to get anything out of that?" she said. "I am used to getting nothing. The man took the rupee and spent it on himself."

We sent at once for the man. Sure enough he had given the woman nothing at all. She had been divorced, he said, and was entitled to nothing from him.

"So—very well—if that is your explanation you can look after yourself in future. Your brother who can afford to do so will pay the woman a few rupees each month for the maintenance of your child. As for you, make your own arrangements."

And so it was.

But to return to the day's work. We are early risers, and six o'clock every morning finds the people astir. After a cup of tea I commence the day by walking round the town. Just now we have an Indian superintendent of public works engaged in repairing buildings, and transforming an old police-lines into a hospital. There is a sum of money allotted for the completion of each piece of work, and this amount must on no account be exceeded. It behoves one to keep both eyes open that this latter proviso is not lost sight of. From the superintendent I wander through the streets and note that the sweepers are doing their work in keeping the town clean. If the environments of a house are found to be in a filthy state—this happens seldom—I just say: "Tell the owner to come to the office." This means that he is "for it" later on in the day. We do not argue about such matters in the street.

A STREET IN ZEILA.

I generally visit the pier last of all, and anxiously look to see if the sea is attacking its foundations in any way. The D.C. is responsible for the pier, and there is always something going wrong with it. At present one Indian merchant has several thousand bags of salt stacked at one end, and I am in terror that this great weight will cause the foundations to collapse. When interviewed the merchant is always trying to do something about it, and something else is preventing him from doing it. He is undefeatable. I can only hope that when a big sea comes it will wash away the salt without doing any further damage.

Breakfast time comes at eight or eight-thirty o'clock, and at nine, sometimes earlier, one is in the office. First of all the cases come on. Divorce and matrimonial affairs are, as a rule, after a preliminary hearing, sent to the Kathi; but the aftermath of all such cases, such as the failure to pay mehr, or maintenance, is always cleared up by the poor D.C. Other cases are of a great variety, comprising political, civil, and criminal matters. There are also many petitions. Probably the contractor who controls the meat market complains that he cannot carry on any longer unless the dues payable by him to government are reduced. He is really the market master, and recoups himself for the expenses incurred by charging the butchers a small fee for each animal killed and sold. This man makes as much fuss over the small fee he is called on to pay as if it were millions of rupees instead of tens. Therefore, we must check the animals slaughtered daily, over a given period, to enable us to compare his receipts with the fees we collect, plus his other expenditure. We do not take his word; we send our own man to collect these figures.

Then there are other petitions. One such from the daughter of a deceased pensioner, describing herself as a lone woman, lies before me as I write. "I am a poor orphan and have no one to turn to but God and your honour; I pray that you will assist me and I will always pray for your long life and prosperity." Rather overwhelming, but one reads that sort of thing without a quiver of the eyelid. Here is my note under the petition: "Petitioner is a good character; the daughter of a sepoy who accompanied Ferjallah Alone on General Gordon's escort from Egypt to Zeila. She makes a living by selling cakes of bread in the bazaar."

The petitions attended to, the District Clerk calls for some attention. The customs receipts have arrived and must be checked and locked away in the safe. A receipt is then signed for the amount and the peon goes off. After this, if the cases are finished, miscellaneous work is attended to, such as the issuing of passes to natives desirous of visiting Aden or other places; the settling of applications for leave from police and other matters. In the afternoon correspondence is attended to, and last of all the balance shown in the cash book is compared with the cash actually in the safe. If the two amounts agree I sign the cash book. The last day of the month is pay day, and as I dole the wages out, an old man, who lives like a hermit on all other days at Sheikh Amar's tomb near my house, comes to the window grating and literally howls for pice. I shall never give that old humbug a pie.

After office hours one inspects the jail and arranges for the release of time-expired prisoners. We have no long sentence men so this happens frequently. Afterwards a long walk or a game of hockey or football: then home, a bath, dinner, and a lonely evening. To-night I occupied myself by writing this very imperfect account of how the days are filled. Of the cases one tries more anon.

[CHAPTER III]

PERSONAGES

Mahomed the Interpreter—Mahomed as magistrate—Mahomed as author—Mahomed's reason for Ramathan—Mahomed as fighting man—Buralli Robleh, policeman and gentleman—Buralli's domestic affairs—Mohamed Auwit, petition writer.

I

Mahomed is the court interpreter, a personage of considerable importance and would-be dignity. In spite of a decidedly perverse sense of proportion, leading him at times to confuse the duties of interpreter with those of magistrate, he is not a bad fellow. He has certain peculiarities and some aggravating ways, all of which I readily condone by admitting that Mahomed means well. But though meaning well a man may still do badly, and I suspect that our Mahomed is not the tremendous success he imagines himself to be. The day may come—though I doubt it—when he will decide to discard the turban for a hat, in which case, should he find one large enough to fit his head, and if by any chance there lies within his nature a spark of humour capable of asserting itself, the great Mahomed will become quite a human, lovable character.

I have learned much from him; among other things the respect and honour due to a court interpreter. Upon these points my education, I regret to say, had been sadly neglected, but Mahomed has done his best. My first mistake was regrettable. I had occasion to interview an Indian shopkeeper. Mahomed was not present, and I did not send for him. I plead in self-defence that the matter was trivial, but, later on in the day, Mahomed pointed out what a serious thing it would be if magistrates were allowed to glean information through other than the official channel, the interpreter. I felt that to apologise, as I should like to have done, would show Mahomed how deeply ashamed I was of myself, and, that out of consideration for my feelings, he might never reprimand me again. But I wanted to learn.

An occasion arose for him to speak to me a second time. Mahomed was trying a case in his official capacity as interpreter, I was assisting in mine of magistrate. An old Arab had died, leaving some property to be divided amongst several sons; as yet this had not been done; the property was in charge of the deceased's brother and stored in his house. One of the heirs was in a hurry to pouch his share, and removed a hubble-bubble without mentioning the matter to the others. He was ordered to return it, and to wait until a proper distribution of the property could be made. But the fellow was a bad lot; he broke into his uncle's house and stole a beautifully carved old bed, and some mats. I was examining a witness, concerning this theft, who had apparently contradicted herself. It was all about the bed—these people know everything concerning one another's beds, which are heirlooms. The woman giving evidence stated, in the first instance, that the bed produced in court had been given to the accused's aunt by her father-in-law as a wedding present. The father-in-law was the accused's grandfather. Further on in her statement the witness said it had been given to the accused's aunt by a woman. I asked her, through Mahomed, to explain the discrepancy. Mahomed refused to put the question. It was quite unnecessary, he said. He knew the woman referred to was the accused's grandmother, and the bed was a joint present from her and her husband—quite simple.

"But," I said quietly, "I should like the witness, who is on oath, to tell me that, not you. Please put my question!"

"But I have already explained to you, it is quite unnecessary to ask the woman!"

I insisted.

Mahomed turned to the inspector of police and said in aggrieved tones, "The Sahib doubts my word. It is useless my interpreting in this court."

I felt that on this occasion I must apologise. I cleared the court and asked Mahomed to stand in the prisoner's cage so that he could hear every word I said. I told him how sorry I was—for him. He accepted my apology. He begged that I would not give the matter another thought, that I would forget all about it. He realised that his reputation would suffer if people knew how badly I had been trained at his hands. To save his reputation I agreed to push my apology no further. But I know Mahomed will not trouble to teach me any more. I am hopeless.

Mahomed has written a book. He told me so himself. Later on in the conversation he said that he had written it in collaboration with a European Sahib. He told the Sahib the names of all the insects and animals in Somaliland, the Sahib wrote them down, and they are in the book.

Mahomed has psychic powers. I asked him the other day why he, and all good Mahomedans, fasted during the month of Ramathan. He did not know. I expressed surprise. Up to that moment I believed Mahomed knew everything. He said he would find out and let me know, as he was sure my version of the origin of the fast was a wrong one. That evening he came to me and said that, during his midday's siesta, it had come to him in a dream why he and his friends fasted. When Adam eat the apple in the garden of Eden it disagreed with him; it was a green apple and stayed in his belly. Mahomed never uses other than good old English words. When Adam went to heaven he fasted for a month, at the end of which time the apple was digested. That is why all good Mahomedans fast at Ramathan—according to Mahomed's vision. I advised him to write another book; it would be interesting.

But I have said Mahomed is not a bad fellow. I really meant that. I have only been depicting a type, taking Mahomed as a sample, Mahomed the interpreter. Mahomed the private individual holds testimonials of faithful service, rendered over long periods to European masters, that any man might well be proud to hold. Once, when he was very young, in the fight against the Mad Mullah at Erego, he was placed in charge of the camel carrying the British officers' water chaguls. In the course of the action he and the camel got into a very warm corner, and the poor camel lost its life. Mahomed was only a servant, but he removed a couple of water bags from the corpse, together with a bottle of whisky someone had stowed away in the pack, and made his way back to the British line, where, sitting under a tree, he found his thirsty master and some friends. To them he quietly presented the water and whisky he had risked his life to bring them. Of course they were grateful, but that was a long, long time ago, and most of the officers who sat under that tree are dead. I wonder if those who are alive still remember Mahomed.

II

A human head sculptured from a block of Welsh slate, an exact miniature replica of a sphinx, and you have sub-inspector of police, Buralli Robleh, to the life. Inscrutable but kindly; gentlemanly, with just a touch of fire to warn careless people that he is not a man to be played with. Buralli is one of the most likeable natives I have met in Zeila. For thirty years he has served the government faithfully and well, and the general impression is that even when he be retired on pension he will continue so to serve. He is the terror of all criminals, and the despair of people who intrigue. He sees that the caravans, as they approach the town, are not besieged by a crowd of howling brokers and their satellites, but are allowed to enter the market-place in peace; that the police are doing their duty, and that their lines and equipment are kept clean; that the D.C. hears the other side of the story as opposed to that presented by careless and lazy Akils. He knows the private history of all the litigants who appear in the District Court, and whether they are trying to bring up a claim that has been tried fourteen years ago. He knows whether the poor woman in rags, pleading for a rupee to buy food for her starving child, is what she seems to be, or a humbug who is quite well off. Rarely does he give an opinion until asked, more rarely still is that opinion challenged, and never on the ground that it is not an honest opinion. During his service Buralli has served under many Sahibs, some of whom are now famous men; and Buralli has learned much, among other things the psychology of the Sahib.

He is not a detective; criminal investigation is not in his line; but the prevention of crime is. Yet I have heard him confess that, under certain circumstances, he is prepared to break the law himself. These were the circumstances. Last night a man returning home at midnight found a stranger in his house talking to his wife. He beat the trespasser on the head with a stick, and was arrested by Buralli. Buralli pressed his case hard. "Unless you punish this man, Sahib, there will be trouble between his section and the injured man's section!"

"Buralli," I said, "had you been in the accused's place what would you have done?"

"I should have put my knife into the other fellow," said Buralli, "but, had I done so, I should have deserved punishment."

To-day a mail arrived bringing a circular instructing the sons of all Somal notabilities desirous of undergoing a course of instruction at Gordon College, Khartoum, to present themselves at Berbera, not later than the end of the month, for examination as to fitness for selection. The only candidate in this district is Buralli's eldest son.

"Better get that boy away at once, Buralli," I said, "or he will be too late."

"He must wait," said Buralli.

"Why, don't you wish him to go?"

"Ha, Sahib, I wish him to go more than anything else in the world, but his mother is very ill. She is deeply attached to the boy, and it would upset her to part with him just now. When she is a little better I shall tell her, and the boy can go."

And, do you know, I believe Buralli is deeply attached to his sick wife. He is the first Somal I have ever met who could show such tender consideration for a woman.

III

Mahomed Auwit, Arab, is the court petition writer. The son of an influential Arab resident of Aden, who died many years ago leaving Mahomed a handsome legacy. He belongs to the upper ten of Zeila society. Rumour has it that the residuum of Mahomed's legacy is buried in the floor of his house. He is a scholar, and reads and writes not only Arabic but also English passing well.

It is customary for people with a plaint to engage the services of Mahomed to write it all down in English, in what is called a petition. The defendant and plaintiff in the same case may each write a petition, which is handed up, with the other documents, when the case comes on for trial. A very excellent plan, giving the magistrate some idea of what the dispute is all about. Mahomed is a past master at writing petitions, and some of his epistles might well have been taken straight out of the Old Testament.

He is a most estimable, unassuming character, wears glasses, has a pronounced stoop, and in appearance is not at all unlike a tall thin old woman with a large nose, dressed only in a turban, her nightdress, and a pair of sandals.

Mahomed the interpreter, Buralli, and Mahomed Auwit are the three most important personages in Zeila district court.

[CHAPTER IV]

COURT WORK

The Court opens—Sultan Mahomed Haji Dideh—Petitions—A case of "being found out"—Gambling—Mr Gandhi.

As I enter the office there is a slight commotion: Buralli, Mahomed the interpreter, and Mahomed Auwit have already arrived, and hurry from the desk of the last named to bid me good morning. We are a polite community. Mahomed Auwit has practically finished his morning's work, as a small pile of petitions prepared by his hand, and placed ready in my basket, testify. When I have taken my seat Buralli informs me that the Sultan of Zeila is waiting to be received. I assent, and a fine old grey-beard is ushered in. His feet are innocent of shoes or sandals, but his cotton shirt and pantaloons are spotlessly clean. A pleasant intelligent looking man is my mental note. He fumbles with a bundle of papers, from which he extracts one and hands it to me.

"Sultan Mahomed Haji Dideh," I read, "was born at Zeila, and is not in a sound state of mind. He is under the delusion that he is king of all the kings. His dominions, he says, extend even beyond the limits of this earthly planet.

"(Signed) Isher Dass,
"Sub-assistant Surgeon."

What can I do for you I asked the old man. Buralli explains that the Sultan sometimes visits the custom-house on an imaginary tour of inspection. As a rule Harrichand, the customs superintendent, is very good natured and puts up with the old man's nonsense. This morning Harrichand was busy, and when the Sultan called could spare him no time and became cross. Sultan Mahomed Haji Dideh was summarily ejected onto the street.

Concerning this insubordinate conduct on the part of one of his officers the old man is here now to complain. I look round the court for inspiration. A crowd has collected near the door hoping to hear the old fellow baited. He himself looks so dignified, so like what he professes to be, that I have not the heart to hurt his feelings. I seize his certificate of insanity, copy it, and hand it back, saying that I have made a note of his complaint, and that it will be attended to. The Sultan is sane enough to realise there is nothing to be gained by prolonging the interview; he accepts his paper, bows condescendingly, and, turning about, struts majestically out of court.

I turn to the petitions.

"I most humbly beg to state," I read, "that one Abokr Fahia of the Gadabursi, Abrian, had looted a pregnant she-camel from Wais Kurmaneh of the Issa Rer Kul. And then, instead of this she-camel, Issa Rer Kul had taken a camel from Abokr Fahia. Now the Gadabursi Abrian want their camel from the Issa Rer Kul and do not wish to settle the claim of the she-camel Issa Rer Kul. I therefore pray your honour to order him, Akil Wairreh Yunis, who filed the complaint, to restore the camel of the Issa Rer Kul. By doing me this act of kindness I shall ever remain grateful. Signed, Hersi Ahamed, his mark, of the Issa Rer Kul."

Now Wairreh Yunis is the Akil of the Abrian section of the Gadabursi tribe, and Hersi Ahamed is the Akil of the Rer Kul Issa tribe. In Political Case No. 17, of 1918, judgment was given against the Rer Kul in favour of the Abrian for two camels, one of which had been paid according to the Abrian statement, and the other remained as yet unsettled for. This camel Wairreh Yunis was now demanding, and Hersi Ahamed in his petition pleaded it was paid for by one camel owed to the Rer Kul by the Abrian. Rather confusing but that was what was meant. It will be observed in the petition above that the camel taken from Wais Kurmaneh is described as having been pregnant.

When case No. 17, of 1918, was heard neither Hersi Ahamed nor Wais Kurmaneh attended to defend it, hence judgment was given against them in default. The present case, numbered sixty-seven of 1919, however, brought some facts to light concerning this old case. It would be hopeless to attempt to write down the tortuous statements made by the various witnesses, and the following is what we arrived at, after sifting the evidence, as a correct appreciation of the origin of the dispute.

Last year drought conditions obtained in Somaliland, and many people, among others Abokr Fahia, were hard put to it to procure food. All Abokr's milk camels were dry, and it was a case of having to slaughter an animal. His choice fell on Wais Kurmaneh's she-camel, which he looted and killed. He does not attempt to deny that he looted this camel, but he denies it was pregnant. Wais Kurmaneh says it was, but how is he going to prove it; the camel is dead. When the latter found out what had happened to his she-camel he lay in wait near Abokr Fahia's kurria until a favourable opportunity presented itself, when he looted one of his she-camels in revenge. But this camel he did not kill, and, shortly after he had seized it, it gave birth to a baby camel; therefore the Gadabursi claim that the Rer Kul man looted two camels from their man and must return the baby, which they have claimed for as one camel. They consider they hold a strong position as the original camel looted being dead (and dead camels tell no tales) it cannot be proved to have been pregnant.

But their reasoning is not my reasoning. They find it hard to explain why they hid the true facts of the case a year ago, and neglected to explain, until it was dragged out of them, that the whole case was trumped up on an affair of cross-looting. Nevertheless both parties considered they had a bonâ fide case, and both parties felt aggrieved that they got nothing out of it all but a sound wigging. Never mind, better luck next time.

I go through the rest of the petitions; nearly all claims for ordinary debt, and settled in much the same way as similar cases are settled in England. There are the usual petitions from divorced women for payment of their mehr, or maintenance, for their children, with a request that the D.C. will put the screw on, and, as an inducement to do so, he is assured of the lifelong prayers of the petitioners in reward.

Buralli has one or two criminal cases to settle. A small boy about five years old is placed in the dock, and charged with the theft of two rupees from the old lady who makes the earthenware pots. According to her the baby prisoner is a desperado of the deepest dye. Has he not been the cause of her losing two silver rupees? But when we turn him upside down, and the stolen money falls with a jingle on the floor, she says: "He is only a child, Sahib, let him go." And I let him go. He is branded for ever, child as he is, as a sneak thief. Had he waited until he was older, and held up an old woman on the road with his spear, threatening to take her life unless she handed over her one and only camel on which was packed all her worldly possessions, he would have been regarded as a hero, and might lord it with the best of his brigand friends in the mosque or in the town. But now he is only a thief who stole two rupees, and was arrested by the police. Decent people will hound him from their doors. A strange thing, public opinion!

Then comes a "grievous hurt" case. Husband, wife, and the other man. How the wife fights to save her reputation. She is prepared to sacrifice her husband if only that can be spared. But facts are too strong for her. One after the other they are uncovered, and shred by shred the woman's reputation goes, until only rags are left. Yesterday how highly she held her head, and how disdainfully she scorned her more unfortunate sisters, whose ranks she joins to-day. But she fights on, as no queen ever fought for her crown, until she is forcibly removed. Her morals have nothing to do with the present case beyond having provided a provocation for her husband's offence. And yet, serious as is the matter for her, she is no worse than hundreds of the other townswomen. She has only committed the unpardonable offence of having been found out.

SCENE OUTSIDE ZEILA COURT-HOUSE.

The last case of any importance is one in which a number of lads are charged with gambling. There has been a police raid, and the usual paraphernalia of such cases is produced. A dirty old pack of cards, some small silver coins, and a number of coppers. Police Constable No. 13—unlucky number, he has a beautiful black eye—deposes that he caught the prisoners red-handed, playing cards in one of the numerous coffee shops in the town; seized the cards and the coins, and arrested the men.

"And did they come quietly, Constable?"

"Yes, Sahib."

"Then whatever on earth has happened to your eye?"

No answer, and I do not press the question. As a matter of fact P.C. No. 13 set out last night to administer a little corporal punishment to his wife. His wife chastised him instead.

The prisoners plead guilty to playing cards, but state they were only playing for cups of coffee. That is an old yarn, and does not go down. Fined one rupee each, and cautioned that they will not get off lightly next time.

And now comes Mr Gandhi, the public superintendent. His coolies have actually gone on strike. For what? More pay? No. for what? More water. Well, Mr Gandhi can settle this strike by giving them as much as they want, and hang the expense.

The court work is over; I go to count pick shovels at the prison, and say "salaam" to the mean unhappy wretches I have sentenced to of durance vile.

[CHAPTER V]

THE TWO WIVES

Indelicate expressions—The narrative of No. 1—Interruptions—The narrative of No. 2—Buralli speaks the epilogue.

This is a truthful record of a scene that occurred in my court to-day. If some of the expressions used are rather indelicate I can only excuse myself for repeating them on the plea that they are not to be compared with some other expressions used, but not repeated. Africans call spades "spades," and talk without embarrassment about subjects that are taboo in our drawing-rooms. This morning, without any warning, two Somal ladies were ushered into my presence at court. Ushered, did I say? Rather, two ladies burst into the court dragging at their tails a squad of perspiring policemen, who showed signs of having been engaged in an unsuccessful argument with the women.

The imperturbable Somal sub-inspector of police guided one woman into the witness-box, the other into the prisoners' stand.

"Well, madam," said I to the one in the witness-box, "what is your trouble?"

Both women began to shout. Cries of "Silence" interrupted them, and Buralli, the police inspector, was able to make a little speech.

"Sahib, these two women have been fighting like devils. At first I thought the town was afire. We have put this one in the witness-box to keep them apart. As sure as they are within reach of one another they fight like tigers, and attack anyone attempting to drag them apart. They are both prisoners."

"Very good. This," pointing my finger at the fat woman in the prisoners' stand, "is accused No. 1. This," at the long gaunt woman in the witness-box, "is accused No. 2. No. 2 will explain what she means by such outrageous conduct."

Meanwhile No. 1 lets down her petticoat, which I observe is girded round her loins for other than peaceful, housekeeping purposes. No. 1, with a snort and a toss of her head, allowed the petticoat to fall, and made other adjustments to her dress and person which enabled me to have a closer look at her without blushing. No. 2 proceeded with her story.

"My second last husband died some two years ago, since when, until a few months ago, I have been a lone respectable widow. Never a word of scandal has been breathed against me until to-day. Four months it is since Ali Hosh began to take an interest in me, and asked my hand in marriage. I refused at first to have anything to do with him, but he pestered me so, that, for the sake of peace, I married him. He had already one wife, the woman present in court, who resented the marriage, and laid herself out to make my life unbearable. At the end of one month I was tired of the perpetual bickering, and begged Ali to divorce me. Though loath to part with me he saw it was the best thing to do, and agreed. Three times he renounced me before witnesses, and I am now a single woman again. This morning his wife came to my house and made use of the most shocking language. She called me a —— and many other bad names. I begged her to go away, but on her making use of the bad expression I have told you of, for a second time, in connection with myself—Me! Me! Me! a most respectable woman—I lost my temper and sailed into her in fine style. I made use of no bad language whatever, and I am at a loss to understand why I have been arrested. I wish you to realise I am the complainant in this case. I demand that this woman be sent to chowky.[2] She is a bad woman, ripe for murder, and my life is unsafe whilst she is at large. What's the use of the British government if it can be flouted by one fat old woman like this!"

Further remarks of accused No. 2 were interrupted by a perfect howl of vituperation from No. 1. Feminine flesh and blood could not stand such a remark as the last to pass unchallenged. I quite understood. There's a time and place for everything. If I wanted to call a woman "a fat old thing" I'd wait until she was sailing for Australia and break it to her gently when the gangway was up and she was too far from the pier—on which I'd be standing—to jump ashore. Women are really braver than men.

Shrieks and hysterical screams. "Ha, you baggage!" "Strumpet yourself; everyone knows you are no better than you ought to be." Interspersed with yells from the policemen to the women to hold their tongues. The row continued: I became quite excited myself, and joined in the mêlée by beating on the table with a heavy ruler and shouting out: "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" Buralli closed this incident by threatening to duck both women in the sea. I ordered No. 2 to proceed. She repeated herself again and again. Mahomed the interpreter gave it as his opinion that she was only wasting my time. I replied that he was much too fond of expressing his opinion, and asked him to keep it to himself. The woman, I said, was to talk until she was tired out, if I sat there all night to listen to her. At it she went again until she had to admit there was nothing more to be said. Meanwhile the other woman was on the verge of a fit. Whenever she opened her mouth three policemen shouted into it. A most effective way of quietening her, but trying to my nerves. Remember the temperature was ninety-eight degrees in the shade.

"Accused No. 2! Have you really finished?"

"Yes, Sahib!"

"Bring a Koran and make her swear she has nothing more to say; and, madam, before you pass your oath, let me assure you that you cannot, like Hastings Sahib, stand astounded at your own moderation. For blasphemous, immodest, immoderate language I have, in the course of a vast experience, only once met your equal, and by a strange coincidence she happens to be accused No. 1. I would caution you that if, in the depths of your bowels, there are any bad words or scurrilous statements left unsaid they had better remain there. One more word from you and I will send you to jail for a month without the option of a fine. Now swear and be careful afterwards to keep your mouth shut!"

She swore.

"Constables! Cast off accused No. 1—let her talk!"

And she did talk. It was like a mad woman praying.

"I have been married to Ali for nineteen years. Some few months ago he became infatuated with this objectionable person, and married her. I called my neighbours and pointed out that Ali was not earning sufficient money to support me and his two children, let alone a new wife, a strumpet who was stealing my husband, and the bread from my children's mouths."

"Madam," I interrupted, seeing that No. 2 was on the verge of hysterics, "try and tell your sad story without calling the other lady names."

"She is everything I have called her and worse, Sahib. Wait until I tell you her private history!"

"No! no! Please get on with your story."

"She is a——"

"Will you be quiet?"

"And every day before she married Ali, and every day since he divorced her——"

"Buralli, for God's sake make this awful woman behave."

Buralli used a few expressions to the lady that I pretended not to understand, but which secretly gave me the greatest inward satisfaction. The woman was actually shocked into getting on with her story. She proceeded:

"Well, the neighbours talked Ali round. He did the right thing, and divorced her. Yesterday I heard he had sent to her for a praying mat. 'What does he want with a praying mat from her,' I said to myself; 'I'll go and see about it.' He works in a little hut beyond the market, and there, sure enough, I found the mat. I took it away and cut it into strips. I carried the strips to this woman's house and I said, 'There's your mat.' I threw the pieces in her face like this—I wish they had been stones. I said to her: 'Take your mat; when my husband wants a praying mat I'll make him a better one than you can. When he wants good food I'll prepare it for him better than you can. When he wants——'"

"Buralli! Stop her!"

"No, Sahib, who can stop a Somal woman? Drown her. Murder her—yes, but as long as she has breath in her body she'll talk."

"Well," I said, "I am going to finish this case. Let her proceed."

On and on she raved. "This is a government office, and here I hope to get justice from an English Sahib, etc., etc." At last she was talked out. I seized my opportunity.

"Do these women live in the same quarter of the town?"

"No, Sahib, in different quarters."

"Well the order of this court is that they be each escorted forth from this building by three police constables to their separate homes. The part of the town in which accused No. 1 lives is out of bounds to No. 2, and she enters therein at peril of being arrested. Vice versâ, the quarter where No. 2 lives is out of bounds to No. 1, and if found there she will be arrested. Take them out!"

I watched No. 2 being led down the road that runs straight away from my office door. No. 1 was escorted across the square to the left. At intervals the women paused to wave their arms and shout abuse at one another, but were ever hustled on by the policemen. At last the stout lady sat on the road and defied her escort to shift her. They did not try, and there she sat until her rival was out of sight, when she arose and went quietly to her home.

"When a Mussulman has been married to one woman for years," says Buralli, "and then marries a second wife he has spoiled the first one."

"In this particular instance, which calls forth your words of wisdom, Buralli, it appears to me that it was the second wife alone who was in danger of being spoiled—by the old wife," I replied.

"Oh, she is all right," said Buralli, "she'll marry again!"

"A bachelor this time, I think, Buralli."

"Sahib," said Mahomed the interpreter, "he was a wise king who passed the law that a European gentleman should have only one wife."

"Perhaps it was a queen, Mahomed!"

"Sure, it must have been a queen!" said the wise Mahomed.

[CHAPTER VI]

CONCERNING SOMALS

Tribal location—European Protectorates—Characteristics—The old Akil—A tale of treachery.

From Egypt to the Juba River the whole north-east African coast is held by three powers, Italy, France, and England. The Italian colony, now known as Eritrea, grew from a small settlement at, or near, Assab, where the Italian flag was hoisted for the first time in 1879. Excepting that most of the coast-line in this colony is populated—in places very sparsely—by the Danakil, a tribe closely resembling the Somal tribe in temperament, customs, and religion, it has no concern with Somaliland. The Danakil territory extends as far south as the Issa Somal's northern grazing grounds, near Tajura in French territory. From Tajura to almost the mouth of the Tana River, in British East Africa, the coast lands, and much of the interior, are held by the Somals.

In 1888 the Italians turned their attention to Southern Somaliland, and by 1894 had established a protectorate over the whole coast between Biaso, on the Gulf of Aden, and the mouth of the Juba River. The Somal tribes south of the mouth of the Juba, and west of that river, ultimately came under the jurisdiction of the British East African government; so that, nowadays, we have, from north to south, Eritrea, French Somaliland, British Somaliland, Italian Somaliland, and that part of East Africa inhabited by Somals and known as Jubaland.

Somaliland, French, English, and Italian, is peopled by a race possessed of such peculiar and contradictory temperamental characteristics, that, were the accident or influence of environment entirely ignored, and this people judged by purely European standards, it might well be classed as a race of maniacs. To bear out the truth of this statement is Burton's description of the Somals who live in the vicinity of Zeila. "In character the Esa are childish and docile, cunning and deficient in judgment, kind and fickle, good-humoured and irascible, warm-hearted and infamous for cruelty and treachery." This description, which cannot be contradicted, might well be applied to the whole Somal race, and it describes a people whose psychology it is impossible for a European mind, with no experience of them, to understand and explain. To the average European, and nearly all other African tribes, the name of Somal is anathema.

It follows that Somals are a people who require very careful handling, and, fortunately for them, the three powers with whom they are most directly concerned have followed the more humane method, when dealing with these brave difficile people, of interfering as little as possible with native custom—even where this custom is sometimes contrary to European ideas of right—so long as it affects only themselves, in preference to an endeavour to enforce European standards by the employment of force.

As Englishmen, Frenchmen, and Italians alike have lost their lives by acts of treachery that can only be described as the acts of madmen, the lesson learned has been that, no matter how safe things may appear on the surface, it is never wise to relax ordinary precaution. The Somal has no sense of reverence, if I may use the expression, and considers himself as good a man, and, like all madmen, as sane a man as anyone else in the world. One may expect no supine servility from him, and the man who looks for it will only find trouble instead. In dealing with Eastern natives the European is not unlikely to become somewhat "spoiled," and, unless he has a very level head, may quite easily lose a due sense of proportion as to his relative importance with other peoples in this world.

To-day I received this note from an Indian clerk:

"Sir,—I respectfully request your merciful honour to arrange for myself and Mr —— two riding camels to go to the garden this Saturday at three p.m. For which act of kindness we shall be highly obliged."

Of course I let him have the camels, and was thanked so profusely that I began to feel I was a rather wonderful fellow, and had done something really magnanimous. But my conceit was about to receive a rude shock.

Shortly after the camel incident a dirty old Akil walked into my office, and, with an abrupt "salaam," held out a grimy paw for me to shake. I shook.

The old gentleman had come in from the bush to draw his salary, which I was prepared to pay him as condescendingly as I had lent camels to the clerk. It is hard to explain what a pleasant sensation of exaltation even the most modest of men may feel when seated on a dais behind a desk, with an inspector of police—who bows every time he is looked at—on his left; an interpreter on his right, who would lick his boots for a rise of pay; a clerk who stands up, and says "Sir" as if he meant it, every time he is spoken to; and a real live savage in front of him who has come to ask for pay, and who is an inferior to whom one can grant favours.

I asked after the Akil's health and his cattle, endeavouring to convey I was not above taking an interest in his affairs. Had there been good rain, and was the grazing good out his way? Was the political situation quite satisfactory? He answered all my questions with civility, and after some little time turned to the interpreter and said: "I've been nearly thirty years an Akil and this is the first time I have been asked immediately on arrival in Zeila for the news of the district. This officer is unlike the other sahibs."

I took this remark as a great compliment to my keenness. For there have been some very clever sahibs stationed here during the past thirty years, all of whom the old boy before me must have met and had dealings with. I was so flattered that I fairly oozed condescension.

"Ask him why I am different to the other sahibs," I said.

"You are different to the other sahibs," explained the old man, "because they knew their work and you don't know yours. They knew that when a man comes from the interior he is tired and thirsty. They gave me my pay immediately I arrived. They did not keep me standing about answering questions, but said: 'Here is a rupee bakshish, go and drink tea with it, and when you are rested and refreshed come back and tell us all the news.'"

That sort of thing may be very trying, but it does keep one from over-developing a sense of self-importance.

The old gentleman was paid his salary, which he counted carefully as if he were making sure we had not cheated him nor given him a bad rupee, then, with an independent "salaam," and a salute that might quite easily have been an attempt to brush a fly off his ear, he went off to drink tea—at his own expense! My one miserable score.

That there have been some exciting incidents in dealing with such people can easily be imagined, and the following description of one such, that happened a few years ago to a European, is illustrative of their treachery. He had left his camp and escort, and with his orderly had gone to shoot birds. Having fired away all his cartridges he was returning to camp, when he met, amongst a party of Somals, a man who had some petty personal grievance against him. I shall let him tell the story in his own words, and, if I may hazard an opinion, he was a lucky man to live to write the lines I quote.

"In a small clearing, perhaps about a hundred yards away, we came upon a party of some fifteen armed Somals who stood directly in our path. For a moment I hesitated. I was completely unarmed, and it struck me that these might be hostile. I questioned my orderly, and he drew my attention to the fact that an Akil, whom I knew, led the party. Recognising the Akil I felt reassured, exchanged with him the salutation of 'peace,' and stepped forward to shake hands.

"As I did this, and addressed an inquiry in the vernacular with regard to his health, a man who was standing behind him drove at me with his spear. The point took me on the right side of the ribs, inflicting a bad but not serious wound, while the force of the blow sent me to my knees. My assailant still pressed me backwards, and I instinctively grasped the blade with both hands. My orderly caught the shaft. The weapon was instantly withdrawn, lacerating both my hands severely and slightly grazing that of the orderly. The latter then passed me my empty shot gun and drew his bilawa.[3]

"All this was the work of a moment. Of what happened next I have but a hazy recollection. I lost sight of my orderly, who was doubtless being attended to. I saw the Akil's face, and it was that of a man who knew what was afoot. But I was, then, too busy parrying spear-thrusts to think of anything else. Finally I got away into the bush."

This incident is one of many that have occurred to Europeans, French, English, and Italians, aye, and even Greeks and Russians, in Greater Somaliland. But few such incidents have ended like this one, and there have, nearly always, been no survivors to tell tales. Such are generally affairs of a few seconds—seconds in which death is dealt out with lightning speed by madmen who are incapable of counting the cost and consequences of their deed.

[CHAPTER VII]

MAHOMED FARA

As body servant—Safari troubles—Mahomed of the lion's heart—Mahomed to the rescue—The duel—Mahomed on field service—The parting.

It is more than twelve years ago now since I first met him at Adas-Ababa. I wanted a servant, a strong fellow. Mahomed Fara, Somal, was nineteen years of age, tall and slender; looked delicate, and bore traces of having suffered from smallpox; not enough to disfigure him, for he was a nice looking boy. He wanted to get out of Abyssinia; I do not know how he came there. He also wanted to see the world. I was going on to the Bahr-En-Nil, which was new country to him, and whether that was the chief attraction, or whether, as I like to believe, he had acquired a sneaking regard for my person, only Mahomed knows, but he asked for the vacant post. Physically he was far from the type of man I required, but he had good manners and impressed me. Looking back on the years that have passed I know now why Mahomed impressed me sufficiently to engage him for a trip I feared he might not be up to. It was because he was a gentleman at heart; there was more in him than the good manners I liked so well.

My impression that he was delicate soon became a certainty, but the boy had the heart of a lion, and whatever he turned his hand to was done with the best that was in him. We had a rough trip. Crossing the low Abyssinian territory that borders on the Soudan we found the whole country in flood, and covered with elephant grass ten to fifteen feet high. The transport animals could not, and the transport drivers would not, go on. Somals and Abyssinians alike put their feet down and said we were mad to continue. We only replied that, as far as we were concerned, there was no turning back, but that if they wished to do so we acquiesced. My friend, with whom I was travelling, had some Bantu servants, and a couple of Arabs, who stayed by him, and of all the others I was left only with Mahomed Fara. There was no hesitation or doubt on his part.

"Do you wish to return or will you follow me, Mahomed? You have a free choice."

"I shall follow you," said Mahomed.

Stores were thrown away and burnt, and our sadly diminished little party pushed on. What happened does not greatly concern this story, but, among other things, we ran short of food, and passed through mostly uninhabited country. It was a miserable trek, and we were nearly always hungry. Once, when we met with natives, we purchased dug-out canoes, and as the country was one mass of waterways it looked as if our troubles might be nearing an end. But the canoes were heavy and there was little current to help them along. Sometimes, when worn out with the day's paddling and we wished to camp, not a dry spot could be found for miles and miles. When we found it it was nearly always infested with red ants that resented our intrusion, and made our lives a hell upon earth. When there were no red ants there were mosquitoes. As we pushed through the long grass, seeking something dry to burn, these latter attacked us in swarms. Then the day came when we were all on edge, and little unimportant things began to look out of all proportion to their size. As for Mahomed he was nearing collapse.

We were paddling down stream, my friend with a couple of Bantu in one canoe, Mahomed, an Arab, and I in another. The canoes were almost side by side, and the Bantus jeeringly called our attention to Mahomed, who, with closed eyes and limp body, was automatically dipping his paddle in-and-out of the water.

I looked at him. When a man has been suffering pure, unadulterated misery for days and nights on end the devils that are in his heart wax strong, and on the slightest excuse take charge. The sight of the forlorn, delicate Mahomed, instead of exciting pity within my breast, made me see red. Why should my man be flopping about like a dying duck in a thunderstorm, whilst these other fellows were still putting their backs into it? It was disgraceful!

"Curse you, and curse you, and curse you again! Pull yourself together, you apology for a man, and try at least to look like one!"

Mahomed was done—all in—but there was a something in the fellow that kept those lean arms moving spasmodically, and gripped the thin fingers to the paddle-handle. There was no gallery there to play to remember. If he had put the paddle down and said, "I am beaten; I can't go on," nothing would have happened. But he just carried on. That there was no change in his attitude annoyed me, and the Bantus laughed. Then, to my eternal shame, I sprang forward and struck him; struck him savagely as I would not strike a horse were it as tired as he. He did not flinch from the blow, but just pulled himself together and looked at me. The incident is twelve years old, but I have never forgotten that look. When I think of it I feel as ashamed of myself now as I did when I faced it.

The next day we camped on a dry piece of ground, and it was a case of shooting something for the pot. We had our choice of two varieties of game, doves and elephant, both with the rifle. There was no other animal-life fit for food. Mahomed and I found an elephant standing near an ant heap in long grass. I could not shoot from the side as the grass hid the animal when I stood on the ground, and when I sat on the ant heap his head was at an angle slightly pointing away from me. The one shot offering any hope of success was the frontal head one. This offered but a poor chance of success, but I wanted to get it over, and decided to take it. Mahomed stood behind me with a spare .303, and I, with a .318 in my hand, watched the big brute swaying on his legs as he dozed in the sun. On his head lay a great bunch of grass, which now and then fell to the ground, only to be picked up in his trunk and sleepily returned to its place as head-covering.

Then I fired, and as I had feared, the bullet struck at too great an angle and lodged harmlessly in the mass of forehead-bone. Then things moved. The brute saw me: I whipped back the bolt of my magazine rifle, and, as I pushed it home, the end of a bandage I was wearing on my hand fouled, with the inevitable consequence—a jam. So there I was, perched on an ant heap, in full view of an infuriated elephant, who, with uplifted trunk, came to investigate. The rifle was worse than jammed, because it was fast to my hand with a bandage that seemed to have the strength of a hundred ropes. Mahomed was behind and below with the spare rifle, and could neither see nor do anything. There was room for but one man on the heap to which I stuck, trying frantically to clear my hand. With a shout of "Hold on," Mahomed reached up, tore clear the rifle, bandage and all, and passed the .303 just in time. When it was all over—it was a matter of seconds—I came down and looked at him. Just looked at him, for I could not speak. Mahomed Fara looked back and smiled. We were even. In return for the cowardly blow I had dealt him yesterday he had, by his coolness and presence of mind, saved my life. When I did find my tongue I said, "By God, you are a man," and that closed the incident between us for ever.

Long afterwards, whilst Mahomed was still my servant, we met again one of the Bantus who had laughed at him from the canoe. It was Christmas day, I remember, but he and Mahomed broke the peace outside my bungalow. My friend, he of the canoe, and I ran out together to separate them, but the native head-man told us we would only delay matters by interfering. They had to fight until one was broken.

"Let them fight," said my friend, "let them fight it out."

I looked at Mahomed and saw that he was as thin and delicate as ever, and, to my mind, it seemed his nine stone of flesh and blood must be beaten to pulp by the fourteen stone brute who stood before him.

"Aye, let us fight it out, Sahib," said Mahomed, reading my thoughts, "things have gone too far; we must fight."

"Very well," I reluctantly assented, "but your blood be on your own head."

As I expected the Bantu simply smothered the Somal. Although we barred sticks, knives, or stone-throwing (don't smile, Africans use those things in preference to bare fists) there were many foul blows given and received—more often received by Mahomed—until at last the weaker man was in dire straits. Again and again he staggered to his feet only to hit the ground immediately afterwards.

"Stop. Give in, Mahomed. He's a better man physically, and he'll kill you!"

"I shall never give in," replied Mahomed. "He is a slave and I am his master!"

And then the spirit in him began to triumph over his adversary, who, though quite unhurt, now showed signs of fear. Once he fell to the ground, and seizing Mahomed's leg bit it to the bone. For this act he was rewarded by a kick on the face that gave him the wished-for excuse to "play possum." The battered Mahomed now began to kick his adversary feebly on the body with bare feet, and the latter cried out to us to save him.

"Admit you are beaten!" said Mahomed.

"I am beaten!" said the Bantu.

Afterwards I married. The change of life from the single to the blessed state affects not only the European dweller in Africa, but also his servant. Where a wipe here and a flick there with a duster, in the old days, constituted tidying up the house, everything now must be cleaned and polished with scrupulous care. There are also ever so many things that were never done in the old times more than twice a year—and that a record year—that now call for attention every day. A bachelor's servants rarely remain long with him after he marries. But Mahomed was one of the exceptions. When the first baby came he was as delighted as I, and when others followed he seemed to share the heavy cares of family life equally with me. I can pay him the greatest compliment a white man can pay the native. Wherever the children might be I felt that if Mahomed were there, and alive, they were safe. His own marriage to an older woman was unhappy, and one day, yielding to her importunities, he allowed her to go. She left him a young son. His mother had been rendered destitute as the outcome of a wild raid by the Mad Mullah, and Mahomed brought her, and a young brother, to Jubaland, where we lived. I had then an opportunity of learning that he was a good son.

When war broke out in August, 1914, Mahomed and I, for the first few days, took little heed. We were too far removed from the European world to realise what was coming. But, soon afterwards, I left Mahomed to help bring up the children, whilst I went off to join the King's African Rifles.

Later it was so arranged, by collusion with someone who ought not to have been so unselfish, that he might again taste the joys and discomforts of the old wild free life on the veldt. So Mahomed came to be my servant in the M.I. Wherever I went he followed, though he was cautioned again and again that his duty was with the horses, or in the column, and not in following me round like a dog, even to the firing line. M.I. work in the early days of the G.E.A. campaign was more than exciting, and the men could not understand why Mahomed never failed to accompany them if he had the chance, instead of staying behind with the crowd. But we had a secret, he and I. It was something about a letter that had to be delivered by him under certain contingencies; contingencies that occurred in the careers of many good men, alas, only too often in those days.

Then, one day in March, 1915, at Mwaika Hill in German East Africa, the M.I. ran right into it. For five minutes it was touch and go. I was commanding Somals, and it was the first doubtful corner we had been in together. I was not sure of them for the moment. Let me hasten to say that I am now, sure of, and proud to have commanded them. But on that occasion we were a bit mixed, just a little in the air, and it was vital that we should hold a bad position whilst the column behind deployed for action. There were swarms of bullets about, and I had a suspicion that, mixed up as we were with the Hun askaris, some of those same bullets were coming from our own side. I had joined in a short rush, and was lying ready to order another, when someone came with a run and threw himself beside me. It was Mahomed, and a fine old storm of bullets he brought with him.

"What are you doing here, Mahomed? You ought to be back at the horses."

"Sahib, I promised the Mem-Sahib to look after you, and I've come to warn you that you are not taking cover properly. These people are shooting straight and shooting to kill the officers. It is foolish for you to keep moving about. Please take cover properly."

"Well, now you are here at the Mem-Sahib's orders, do you think you can do anything? Can you catch one of these bullets in your hand? It is you who are foolish."

But all the same after that warning I was more careful to take cover.

We were sending back for ammunition, and Mahomed was told off to accompany the messenger, more to get him out of danger than anything else. But the messenger was killed on the way, and, meanwhile, we were relieved, and received orders to get back to the horses and mount. On our way we met Mahomed again, returning with an ammunition mule whose syce had also been killed; and it seemed to him as if the German and British forces had combined to pick him off, and the wretched mule with him. He had been "through it," and there was a look on his face that reminded me of the day I had struck him on the river. Two men relieved him of his charge, and we dragged the disobedient Mahomed back with us, the men keeping an eye on him to see that he ran into no further danger. He was not a soldier, but he was out to risk his life to keep a promise he had made to the Mem-Sahib, and no one would want to accuse him of being a medal-hunter for doing it.

Then Mahomed and I parted, and it was a great breaking-up. The kiddies to England, and he and I missed one another, and did not meet again for more than two years. It was just luck. After the armistice I was on my way home, and, as the train was about to pull out of Nairobi station, we met again. Mahomed hurried on to the platform with a basket of fruit, for he had heard I was ill. He jumped into the carriage, and in a few seconds had arranged my few belongings comfortably. It was a kindly thought, that little service, and worth to me more than the gift of fruit. The memory of it is still sweet. Mahomed, even in the stress and rush of a railway parting, where he had to stand back whilst I spoke to more important people than him, could find pleasure in doing little things for his old master. He had a long memory, had Mahomed.

"If you return I wish to enter your service again," he said, when I had time to give him a moment.

"You are a millionaire now, Mahomed. You are drawing exactly twice the pay I can afford to give you."

"Never mind that; I want to come back on the old pay."

But Mahomed and I are getting on in life, and he has responsibilities. I could not permit him to make such a sacrifice, and so we parted.

Such is the tale of Mahomed Fara, Mahomed the Somal. I do not deny that there were occasions when he kicked over the traces; that he had within him the wild strain of his breed responsive to injury, real or imagined, even as a barrel of gunpowder to a red-hot poker. But I have just pictured him as I found him, and, although he is black and I am white, I am proud to call him "friend."

[CHAPTER VIII]

COMMERCE

Trade sources and commodities—A typical manifest—The old Jew goldsmith.

I call this chapter commerce. Not the commerce so dryly described in the mass of Zeila tabulated customs' returns that lie before me on the desk as I write. Into these figures, at a first glance, it would seem almost impossible to weave the slightest suspicion of adventure or romance. Yet the pursuit of our trade is not without adventure; often adventure of the good old-fashioned kind—well spiced with danger. But the main, and practically the only, industry of Somaliland is cattle raising, unless one includes the pursuit of war as an industry. If so it is a dying one. With the proceeds of the sale of his surplus cattle the Somal buys goods from all parts of the world. Cloth from America, Europe, Arabia, and India; bowls and other knick-knacks from Japan; the bulk, or all, of which comes to him through the great clearing house of the near east, Aden.

Although a couple of small coastal steamers owned by an Aden firm visit our port at stated intervals, most of our sea-borne trade is carried in the holds of dhows. The Zeila fleet is not a large one, and plies between the comparatively near ports of Berbera, Aden, Jibouti, Perim, towns on the Arabian coast; Assab, an Italian port in the Red Sea, and several other unimportant places. From Assab come mats for covering the huts and tents; string, and the leaf of the doum palm. This latter the women of Zeila plait in their spare time, as our women do knitting, into long flat strips, which are afterwards sewn into bags and mats. But the best mat grass comes from Berbera, and I have one mat plaited from this grass which is truly a work of art. Interwoven with the plaited grass are thin strips of red and blue cloth, forming a diamond pattern of tasteful design; the result being an article that pleases the most fastidious eye.

Apart from cloth, dates, rice, and sugar are our chief imports. Dates are a splendid and highly nutritious food, eaten daily if procurable. They come to us from Mokulla, Muscat, and Basra, and are, more often than not, transhipped at Aden. But our dhows are enterprising craft and go a-trading themselves. Here is the manifest of one that arrived home to-day:

"Dhow Fathal Kheir, Master Said Musa; cargo:

250	packages of dates
30	bags of lime
2	bundles of mat bags
1	package of sweets
6	bundles of coir rope
—all from Mokulla."

From Basra come, in addition to the dates, grain, carpets, and sweetmeats, the latter being the well-known Turkish delight. The carpets are disappointing, and it is to be feared that, though they actually come from Basra, the majority are made in Europe. I have only been able to secure one drugget of undoubtedly eastern manufacture, but it is so fiercely coloured that it will swear at everything in a civilised room. In the old days real, genuine carpets found their way here from Basra, and other ports. I have seen one such, though over fifty years of age, whose colours are as bright and fresh now as on the day it was made.

The dhows bring all sorts of delightful things to gladden the heart of the European collector. I picked up two lovely old brass-bound chests made from a rich black wood, finely carved by a delicate hand. None of your barbarous eastern designs. I have seen many old chests, but these of mine are, in my opinion, incomparable. They are to me a perfect joy, but can only be described by an artist, and I am not one. Sometimes I turn the massive brass key of one, and throw open the lid, when the faintest and most delicate smell of incense steals forth to tell how, long before these boxes came into my hands, they were used by Arab ladies to store their delicate silks and fripperies. What is their history? I know not. I was lucky to acquire them, for the old Arab families rarely part with such heirlooms, for heirlooms they are, or were.

And then, sometimes, one finds the most wonderful old pottery. Plates that the old Arab grandmothers, years ago, hung upon their walls for ornament, and, incidentally, to prove their very good taste. That these people do have good taste, and some cultivation, is shown by their high appreciation of such articles, all of which came to our shores in the dhow holds. Who dares to say that our commerce has not its spice of romance?

Of our exports skins are the most important. Horned cattle come next. From Abyssinia has been known to come, in one consignment, ivory, coffee, and civet. The coffee is from Harrar; famous for its long berry and delicate flavour. For the latter quality I can vouch. My cook buys the berries at eightpence the pound and has them roasted and ground by a woman expert in the town. Gums and frankincense, gathered from the wild trees, are also valuable products that find their way hither in small parcels, hidden among the camel loads of grain and skins. Large caravans of the "ships of the desert" enter the town daily, and many are the stories of "loots" and wild doings they report of the hinterland through which they have passed. With the exception of a little of the coffee, incense, ghee (rancid butter), and grain, this latter from Abyssinia, all they bring goes to the dhows for export.

The incense is used by Somal and all Mahomedan women to perfume themselves. A small earthenware brazier is filled with burning charcoal, on which is sprinkled the incense. Over the brazier the lady stands, covering it and the smoke with her petticoat, should she wear one, or the sheet-like robe that drapes her body. As a result she is well fumigated, and if, afterwards, to the European nostrils she exhales a sickly smell of stale incense what matters it; for European prejudices she cares but little, and her husband has, I regret to state, an abominable taste in scents, and thinks she smells fine. Perhaps she does.

In our town the manufactures are few but interesting. There is the old Midgan woman who makes the earthenware pots and water ewers. She is a marvel of expertness. With her fingers she will mould a pot from a piece of mud whilst you are looking at her. There is no wheel, no model; it is all done with the fingers alone. A water vessel with a slender neck appears as if by magic. It is as if she were making passes in the air with her hands, and the thing appears like the Indian conjurer's mango tree. Our pot woman would make her fortune on a London music-hall stage, and she is such a friendly soul; her smile is like a tonic.

Then we have iron, silver, and goldsmiths. The former make knives, daggers, spearheads and arrowheads for men, and little household utensils for the women. The silversmiths squat on their mud floors and mould and hammer out all kinds of ornaments: silver anklets, chains, bracelets, neck-amulets, and huge silver beads for the women; silver rings set with huge moon and other cheap stones, the bigger the better, for the men. Terrible affairs these rings, that set one's teeth on edge; but the other ornaments are well made and not at all inartistic. The little silver vessels, covered with filigree work, used to hold the black paint with which the women accentuate their eyebrows, and the henna for staining their fingers, always appeal to me. One silversmith has a box full of every kind of second-hand ornament. One day I was present when he turned it out and I pounced upon one of these paint vessels which he refused to sell. It was in pawn, as were the other articles.

The old Jew goldsmith has bars of gold shaped like small sticks of solder. Pure Abyssinian gold it is, too. He has old, old dies for making medallions, the inscriptions on which neither he nor anyone else in Zeila can read. These medallions, always of gold, are fashioned with tiny connecting links of chain into handsome necklaces. How I'd love to rummage through his boxes, but he is discouraging, and barely allows me a glimpse of the wonderful old things he owns, or perhaps holds in trust. He is our fashionable jeweller, but he, too, squats on his haunches on the floor to beat out the most beautiful things with his hammer, on an anvil no bigger than six inches of steel railway rail. He is anxious that I should commission him to make a pair of ear-rings for "Madam." I am to provide pearls and design, he the gold and craftsmanship. But then I am no draughtsman, and I am not sure whether "Madam" would after all appreciate our combined efforts! I have suggested that we let the matter stand over until I hear from "Madam," to whom I have referred it. He says it is a waste of time to wait. "Madam" is sure to say "Yes," and, if she does, I shall get good value for my money. If all is as it appears to be I most certainly shall. A golden trinket, when completed, he places in one balance of a tiny pair of scales, and balances it with silver four anna-bits. For every silver coin in the scale one pays him three and a half rupees in settlement for the gold; then, for every rupee you have paid for the gold you add a quarter rupee for his work—and the article is yours ... or "Madam's."