Sixteen

 

‘Where the hell have you been?’ Sam’s indignant bleat greeted Edward as he reappeared at the Aghieri West Quay. ‘There’s a war on. Didn’t you know?’

Edward knew only too well. The train had been held up to allow troop trains heading for Brindisi to pass – lines of carriages jammed with yelling young men, horse boxes full of excited cavalry mounts, and flat cars loaded with guns and equipment.

The station and the Piazza Garibaldi had been crammed with troops, thousands caught in the pools of light from the gas lamps that protruded from the smoke-blackened walls, saying goodbye to their families in the shadows of engines that snorted showers of smut. They were squeezing concertinas, plucking at mandolins, embracing their women, exchanging bread, wine and sausage, voices echoing under the glass and iron of the vaulted roof.

‘They’ve sent an army to occupy Tripoli,’ Sam said. ‘Oughtn’t we to go home?’

‘Why? It doesn’t affect us. Italy’s not been invaded. Tourists are still arriving. I saw a carriage load at the station.’

That evening, they ate at a small trattoria near the quay. Everybody in the place seemed to be shouting, not only at their companions but across the restaurant to other diners.

‘We must get rid of corruption,’ a man on the next table was shouting across them. ‘The army’s short of guns and the navy’s short of boats.’

Edward’s ears pricked and he leaned forward. ‘Sam,’ he said, ‘this sounds like an opportunity for us.’

The following day, he wired Egg to be prepared to push up production and managed to get an interview with a naval commander in the Ammiragliato in the building of the Ministro della Marina.

‘It’s true we have invaded Libya,’ he conceded. ‘After four hundred years of Turkish misrule, it’s time someone else had a go.’

‘Where did you land troops?’

The commander smiled. ‘You don’t seriously expect me to tell you?’

Edward smiled back. ‘I have a reason for asking. Do you have all the boats you require? Because I can supply them if they’re needed.’

‘What sort of boats?’

‘Pinnaces, barges, motor torpedo boats.’

‘Where would they come from?’

‘From England. They could be here within weeks.’ Edward crossed his fingers behind his back.

A long discussion followed on cost, fuel and delivery. For a moment it looked as though a contract might be in the offing. But in the end the commander decided his authority wasn’t sufficient for him to risk it, and backed off.

 

From the newspapers Edward learned the Italians had landed near Tripoli and had proceeded to blockade the city. And, from a small paragraph at the bottom of the page, it appeared that another blockade was taking place at Arina, near Benghazi, and that the man in command was Commandante di Brigata Arnaldo Boboli.

The following week, when the 6000-ton French coaster, Liberté, came alongside at a small port called Sanauen, 20 miles west of Arina, Edward and Sam and two of Egg’s 45-footers, Aeneas and Achates, were aboard, together with their cases of spares.

Edward didn’t waste any time in tracking down the Commandante. A shabby hotel of whitewashed mud bricks near the waterfront called the El Abid had been taken over for the military staff and Boboli was established there. From the hall of the hotel Edward spotted the Italians on the verandah. A table was covered with charts and maps and a loud argument was going on.

He waited impatiently while his business card was presented. There was no response. Then, abruptly the charts were rolled up, and the officers on the verandah dispersed. Edward himself was about to leave, when a young captain, all smiles and moustache, appeared.

‘Signor Bourdillon?’

Edward rose and the Italian clicked his heels.

‘You wished to see the general?’

‘To pay my respects.’

‘Come with me, please.’

Boboli was a short stout man with a black beard in which the white streaks appeared to have been introduced artificially, they were so exact.

‘Signor Bourdillon,’ he said. ‘How nice to meet you. I remember your father well. Your mother was a cousin of mine.’

This was news to Edward, but he didn’t let on.

A bottle of wine was produced by the young officer and they sat on the verandah and chatted inconsequentially about the Bourdillons.

The formalities over, Boboli asked why Edward had come to see him.

‘I believe you are short of munitions, Commandante?’

‘We have the men and we have the guns.’ Boboli stroked his beard. ‘Unfortunately, Rome misjudged the situation. They expected the local tribesmen to greet us as liberators. No one observed that they are Muslims and prefer to side with the Turks. The tribesmen are massing at Ain Zara to the south, and Benghazi and Derna are too far away.’

Boboli frowned. ‘We need the harbour at Arina. It isn’t a deep-water harbour but it would do. There are lighters that can be brought up. Unfortunately, the Turks are in position and we dare not attempt a landing. If we could only take Arina, Benghazi would fall like a ripe plum.’

Suddenly he smiled, revealing acres of excellent white teeth. ‘When the Balkan countries finally decide to throw off the Turkish yoke, it will be wonderful,’ he went on. ‘The Turks will find all their supplies are on the wrong side of the Mediterranean again. They’ll have to take everything back again. For the time being, however, I am obliged to kick my heels here while the Turks sneak ammunition and men past every night.’

‘You need small fast shallow-draught armed boats to intercept them, Excellency.’

‘Two or three would do the trick. They could lie in wait under the shadow of the cliffs.’

‘I know where there are two such boats.’

Boboli raised an eyebrow. ‘Tell me more,’ he said.

‘They are Bourdillon boats, Excellency. They can do thirty knots.’

‘That’s fast, my young friend.’ Boboli smiled again. ‘But these boats. They are steam launches?’

‘No, Excellency. They have petrol marine engines.’

‘Are they armed?’

‘They are strong enough to take a gun.’

‘What I want is a torpedo. There is a Turkish gunboat, the Tahaf, lying in the harbour at Arina. Her guns cover the entrance. She escorted a small coaster, the Huda, carrying ammunition. The Huda lies beyond her. They ran her aground to make unloading easier. There isn’t much in the way of harbour installations. They’re building a jetty and rigging a derrick. Bring me your boats when they can fire a torpedo and I might be interested.’