Then followed a week of painful navigation against head winds, which, however, varied sufficiently in direction to allow of advantageous tacking. As far as possible I hugged the coast, for out at sea there was a very heavy swell, with a strong and unchanging north-west wind. The channel south of Massawa between the mainland and the Dahlak archipelago was much calmer, and there I had the advantage of the changes in wind thanks to the nearness of the continent, and also of the gusts of the khamsin, which blew nearly every evening, coming from deserts still burning from the heat of the sun. In the end I got accustomed to this capricious wind, and endured it for the one virtue it possessed in my eyes, that of blowing from the west. There is often something useful to be learnt from the most disagreeable things as from the worst of men. I passed Massawa without calling in, though I would fain have passed a few hours with my friend Jacques Schouchana, who would be there at this time of year. However, the nature of my cargo might have exposed me to unwelcome curiosity.
After Massawa, right along the northern channel I skirted a low, monotonous coast which rose gradually towards the interior of the country, covered with scrubby thorny mimosas, tufts of dry grass, and everywhere with stones. I was so short of firewood that I had been reduced to a diet of dates and biscuits, so I was on the look-out for a point where I could put in to gather even a few twigs, and I went northwards in short tacks, so as never to be far from the coast. The coastal reef stretched unbroken, without the smallest opening where one might anchor, even for an hour. The coral slabs which border the shores of these warm seas stretch out for more than a quarter of a mile, and make it quite impossible for the smallest ship to put in, for at their edge the water is too deep to give hold for an anchor.
I saw a small boutre coming from the north running before the wind. She followed the line of foam which marked the edge of the reef so closely as almost to touch it. Then suddenly she tacked, went in among the breakers, made straight for land, and anchored right inshore. She had passed through an opening in the reefs which I should never have seen if this miraculous chance had not guided me. It seemed the simplest thing in the world to use this boutre as pilot and follow her into the anchorage. But when I reached the opening, it looked so narrow and I knew so little about it that I suddenly changed my mind, and with a twist of the helm I stood out to sea again. This decision had been so swift and unhesitating that afterwards I concluded it had been imposed upon me by my subconscious will. I decided to leave my ship lying-to, in charge of Mhamed Moussa, and go ashore in the pirogue with Abdi and Kadigeta in case it was necessary to speak Dankali. As soon as we got out of the pirogue I made for the bushes, thinking that there I should surely find some firewood.
A native ran up to me and very insolently asked me where I came from, what I wanted, and so on.
‘Who are you yourself, who speak like a sultan?’ I retorted.
‘I am an Italian soldier. Give me your papers and follow me to the post.’
‘How do I know you are an askari? You have no uniform. Go back to your post yourself, and think yourself lucky that I don’t give you a lesson in manners.’
So saying, I made as if to go towards the clump of bushes. At this the native threw himself upon me, and tried to snatch the revolver I had in my belt. Naturally, a struggle ensued. He called to his aid the sailors of the boutre which had put in a few minutes before us, and five of them came running up. I had only Abdi to help me, for Kadigeta had run off towards the sea. My attacker held his ground, clinging like grim death to my revolver. He knew that if only he could keep me from using it, the five Dankalis would soon master us. But my crew had been watching from the ship, which was not far from the coast, and as soon as Mhamed Moussa realized that there was a fight, he began to fire off shots to frighten my aggressors. The arms on board were Gras rifles with cartridges filled with black powder, and the detonations made a terrific row. Soon the boutre was smoking like a warship in some old print of an engagement at sea. Terrified, the five Dankalis threw themselves flat on the ground, and the self-styled askari let go and nipped off, mother naked, into the bushes, leaving his white chama in Abdi’s hands.
We did not wait for a more glorious victory, but ran towards the pirogue which Kadigeta held ready to push off, and as fast as we could paddle we rejoined the boutre. I was just throwing a leg over the gunwale when a volley of shots was fired from the shore. I saw half a score of red tarbooshes appear from behind the dunes. They were the native soldiers of the Italian post, who had come to their comrade’s rescue, thinking he had been attacked. They treated us to some pretty sniping, and bullets fell thickly round us. It was fortunate that we were already under sail, for it would not have been easy to manoeuvre under the circumstances.
As soon as we began to move, I could not resist replying, for nothing is more irritating than to be used as a target. With the back-sight at eighteen hundred yards, we kept firing off our six rifles. The boutre was soon smoking like a crater; the noise of the shots excited us, we had not had such a good time for long. I knew very well that at this distance my shots were harmless, and so were those of the Italians. We rounded off the fête by an imitation of heavy cannon. This was done by throwing a dynamite cartridge, duly attached and with the wick alight, into the water. This apparatus floated, and when it exploded it made as much noise as a forty-pounder. From a distance it must really have been terrifying.
Soon the dialogue was cut short by increasing distance, and we had a hearty laugh over our battle. On counting the empty cartridge-cases, I found we had fired a hundred and twenty-five shots. A genuine battle, and no mistake. What I didn’t know, and what I was to learn only on my return, was that the Italians did not treat it as a laughing matter at all, and that the whole colony of Eritrea was in a ferment over it.
I consulted my chart to see where this henceforth historic battle had taken place, and found that the spot was called Takalaï. Quite near there was an Italian military post, occupied by a detachment of Tigrean guards. Needless to say I hadn’t known this.
Much smoke had resulted from this visit, but no fire, for we had not got a single stick of wood, and I didn’t think it would be prudent to put in again until we had passed the Italian frontier. I stood out to sea at once to make the people on the coast think I was making for Arabia, so that they would not follow me overland, which they would not have failed to do if I had continued on my way directly northwards. I was far from suspecting how this very decision was to render this adventure still more complicated. While I was struggling with the askari, or perhaps as I fled, I had lost a slipper, like Cinderella, or, strictly speaking, one of my Catalan sandals. This sandal was to appear as evidence against me later on, and it, too, led to complications.
It had been very lucky for me that I had obeyed my impulse and left my ship outside the anchorage, for if I had been inshore I should have been caught like a rat in a trap, and should have fallen into the hands of the Italians. The misunderstanding provoked by my landing might have been cleared up easily enough, but I should have had to explain the nature of my cargo, and there’s no saying how the affair would have ended. Often in my life I have been stopped on the edge of disaster by some such impulse.
For two days and nights after this adventure at Takalaï I was obliged to beat about in bad weather. Our position at midday two days later indicated that we had only got forty miles farther north. There was a strong southerly current against us.