Steve Braker

 African Treasure

A William Brody Action Thriller

Book Two

Foreword

All of the locations in this book exist. I went to great pains to ensure all distances, longitudes, and latitudes were correct.

The islands, villages, and towns I describe are true descriptions of the areas, and the people living in them. Although there is no Christian settlement or mission on Pemba.

Hassan’s village is a real place; however, I did take some author’s license on the description. The Kaya Bongo forest is a real place. The Kaya Bongo clan does exist and have caused some serious issues along the coast of Tanzania and Kenya over the last twenty years.

Scuba diving in Pemba is truly excellent. I would advise anyone that a trip to Pemba Channel offers a once-in-a-lifetime dive experience. The environment is challenging: up to one hundred and twenty feet of crystal-clear water, then you hit the drop off which just plunges into the darkness. I have visited many times; the current is strong sometimes, but all the dives are memorable.

On the West Coast of Pemba, I have dived with schooling hammerheads on more than one occasion. It is truly a sight to behold hundreds of them swimming above you.

Spearfishing is a great sport in East Africa and is totally legal in Tanzania. I always free dive when I am spearfishing, as I believe with scuba tanks the fish really does not stand a chance, so any sport is lost!

Brody’s dhow, Shukran, is based on a dhow I built a few years ago. The hull design and the deck space are similar, but everything else is from many different dhows I have sailed over the years. They are beautiful if cumbersome crafts, which you have to love, as maintenance is an ongoing task.

I would like to thank my wife Pauline for encouraging me to write this book. She has a truly encyclopedic knowledge of East Africa: the culture, the history, the language, and current affairs. Whenever I am stuck for a new storyline, I use her Google-like local knowledge, then I am off again!

I hope you enjoy this novella.

Steve Braker

Chapter One

The Anstel

Captain William Murray climbed the steps from the main deck to the quarter deck. The wind was whistling through his blond, thinning hair and whipped at the long seaman jacket attempting to keep him warm. A pair of worn leather, sea boots, molded to his feet through many years of wear and repair, adorned his feet planting him firmly on the wooden deck. He could feel the swell of the ocean as if he was standing on the surface. Captain Murray was now fifty-one years of age. An old captain, he knew this game was for the youngsters, but since his wife had died of pleurisy five years ago, he had not even bothered with shore leave. The captain lived a spartan life on board the ship he adored. She was named the ‘Anstel,’. Which would be his home now for as long as the company would agree for him to sail her. Eight bells had just been rung on the lovely bronze ship’s bell. He loved the bell. It made him feel at home, like the peal of the parish church bells in his childhood village. He could recognize the clear chime over any other bell on any other ship. Every one of the British East Indian Company ships had such a bell, and each one was proudly engraved with the ship’s name and B.E.I.C., British East India Company.

Captain Murray was a stickler for shipshape and seaman fashion. The deck was always holystoned, and the ship’s bell was polished so brightly it gleamed in the moonlight. Ropes and lines were ready or stowed neatly in the rope lockers. This was a company ship and had to represent the company.

The captain had made it a personal rule to come on deck around this time each night. He would make his rounds, ensuring everyone stayed alert during the early hours of the new day. Many ships had become stricken or sunk due to the watch being asleep at 04:00 hours. He walked the deck, chatting with the keen-eyed lookouts, making sure none were dozing. The crew knew and liked the captain. He had been on the Anstel for over 10 years, plying the British East Indian routes across the globe. Captain Murray and his First Mate James Tamworth, a Southerner from the famous city of Plymouth, were good to the crew. James’s father had been a seaman for the Royal Navy. But as there was peace now, James had opted to work for the British East India Company and be sent all over the world to trade with other nations.

The moon shone brightly above them, showing the large, long swells of the Indian Ocean coming in from the south. The sky was very dark on the horizon. Massive storm clouds had been brewing and jostling for position since early yesterday afternoon. There was going to be a blow, he knew it. Just how bad? Captain Murray had been on the seaman and boy, so knew the ocean was a cruel mistress. She could be all placid or playful, then, just like his late wife, in the split of an eye, she could be a vengeful mistress beating you with all she had, without mercy. If you survived, then it was more luck than judgment. Many of his friends had gone to the deep over the years, and he had come close too often to count.

The year was 1858, a good year for Captain Murray. He had sailed the whole year, usually from London East India Docks across to West Africa and then back. This last trip had been different; he had been sent all the way to the East Coast of India, a perilous journey even in this modern age of the compass and celestial navigation. The Anstel had crossed the channel and then sailed along the West Coast of Africa until reaching the Cape. Then, after battling his way through some of the roughest water in the world, he had beat back up the East Coast of Africa until he came to the port of Mombasa then onwards along the coast until they were some two hundred miles from the Horn. Then they turned East to cross the Indian Ocean. As long as the captain knew which line of latitude he started on and maintained a steady course, they would find their way. The alternative was crossing from Madagascar and then to Seychelles. This was a tough call. Madagascar was fine as it was so big you could usually site it after a day or two off the coast of East Africa. But then finding the Seychelles was a different kettle of fish altogether. The tiny group of atolls were spread out over five hundred miles in the middle of a huge ocean. With some bad weather or lazy seamanship, it was easy to miss them completely and, sail right past them. Then he would have to dead reckon all the way to Sri-Lanka, if he was lucky. The Maldives were treacherous, full of reefs and tiny islands hidden off the coast of Sri Lanka. These coral reefs and islands could be just under the surface and easily tear the hull out of his beautiful ship. It had happened to many competent captains before him, rushing for Madras.

He had heard of the carpenter in England who had come up with the wooden clock to solve all of their problems. No one could tell where the longitude was, it was impossible to find accurately. James and William would discuss at length the celestial readings and argue left and right as to exactly where they were. John Harrison’s Marine Chronometer was just becoming available, but it was so expensive he doubted he would ever see such a thing on one of his ships. So, it was dead reckoning and celestial navigation for them. This was the reason most captains hugged the coasts and  then made a dash in as straight a line as possible across the unforgiving ocean.

The ship had made Madras without any trouble; his one-hundred-man crew had worked together well. Captain Murray kept his men fed and watered, always carrying enough rum to keep them happy while off watch. The bosun had hauled the sails, keeping them as trim as possible, making excellent way across the Indian Ocean.

Once the Anstel had docked, Captain Murray reported to Sir Harry Donaldson, the director in charge of British East India Company Assets there. He was a portly man in his early fifties with a keen smile, standing at least six foot three inches in stocking feet. Sir Harry loved to ride and hunt, he kept a stable of some fifteen thoroughbred horses. His beautiful mansion was adorned with the heads of all the unlucky animals he had encountered on his hunting expeditions. In the study was an enormous black and orange rug in front of the fire. It was a huge Bengali tiger he had shot some years ago. Its canines were at least four inches long.

Sir Harry was big in every way; his massive barrel chest would heave as he laughed like a bass drum. He was quick-witted and loved his job. It seemed he loved India too. They had spent a good deal of time together while Captain Murray was in the city. The East India Company had taken over Madras nearly one hundred years earlier. They had used the fortress city ever since, exporting fine cloth, spices, and of course tea, along with a lot of loot removed from the defeated Raj.

When they had arrived in Madras, all the news had been about the mutiny. The Indian Regiments known as the Sepoys had risen up against their oppressors, the British.

Sir Harry explained, “The Sepoys are a tough bunch, mostly thieves and scallywags. Their only life is the army, and they have been oppressed for many years.”

He seemed to have a certain amount of empathy for their feelings.

He went on, “Generally, the Sepoy has a tough life. He is the lowest of the low in the army and can never attain any full rank. These poor buggers are always sent on dangerous missions and have to put up with substandard equipment, pay, and food.”

The gossip in Madras City markets was the mutiny had occurred because the army had changed the charges for the muskets. When a soldier loaded his musket, he had to tear the top of the paper charge off with his teeth, as he was holding the weapon in one hand and the ramrod in the other. This caused discontent as the Sepoy believed the new charges were dipped in pork fat to keep the powder dry. A taboo in most vegetarian Indian cultures. Another reason was bad food. The Sepoy were not allowed to take their wives on campaigns, so they had to eat what the army offered, which was often not very good fare. The Sepoy was an Indian and needed his curries and spices.

There were many reasons, but the up of it all was they had mutinied on the 10^th of May the previous year and had now taken Delhi and crowned a new Raj of India. This was not good news and was very worrying for all the British East Indian Company personnel.

Sir Harry said, “I am not leaving this place. My wife Isabell and I have lived here for nearly 30 years. It is our home. In fact, it is more a home to us than England. We would be strangers there now. Most of my pals died in the war anyway.”

Sir Harry went on, red-faced, thoughtfully puffing on his cigar, “Anyway, what is left for me in England? I hardly know the place anymore. I have not been back to London for nearly twelve years. Even the food now would disagree with me and with the bloody cold, my gout would play up something awful.” After looking Captain Murray in the eye with a glint and a wink, Sir Harry went on, “The Company rarely bothers me here as long as the ships are full, and I make the shareholders rich. This place is mine, like a king I am. Great life; couldn’t beat it.” With that, he finished the conversation and led Captain Murray to the study for some more brandy. Captain Murray had to agree Sir Harry had a pretty good life here.

James and the crew worked hard day and night loading the Anstel. She was built for this work. An Indiaman, she was 146 feet and 9 inches from stem to stern, weighing in at 820 tons, made of good English oak. She sailed well with her 100-man crew and two officers. She had three decks and could run out 26 guns if required. These had mostly been removed by the company since the war, and now the seas were even free from most pirates, so they only carried 12 cannons, giving them more hold space for expensive goods and chattels.

The hold gradually filled with crate upon crate of precious tea, then fine linens and cloth, and finally the barrels of wonderfully smelling spices. The aromas of coriander, turmeric, cardamom, and tamarind filled the ship. It smelled like an Indian bazaar. They were making ready to sail on the following morning tide when Sir Harry came down to the wharf and invited Captain Murry up for a final dinner. Murray was glad of the chance. He faced a five-thousand-mile journey ahead of him, and home cooking was not going to be on the menu once they set sail in the morning.

The farewell meal was fantastic. Sir Harry was on form, and his beautiful wife Isabell had arranged for some exquisite Indian delicacies. They had red snapper from the creek, then samosas, small pastry envelopes of curried goat or dhal deep-fried, followed by roast suckling pig with local vegetables. It was a delicious meal, all served along with fine wines matching superbly with each course. As usual, Sir Harry was the center of attention, telling them hunting stories, and keeping everyone entertained throughout the evening.

As the dessert was served, good old English apple pie with custard, Sir Harry tapped his glass to get some quiet, “Thanks to my beautiful wife Isabell for this sumptuous meal all organized by her fair hand. The garden is her domain too.”

He then called for the chef from the kitchen.

Sir Harry said, “Sir, this is a splendid meal. Your skills in the kitchen are second to none. I commend you on such a wonderfully prepared meal, I toast you and my wife, and I hope for many more like it.”

The old rascal then coughed. As was the way of the English gentry at this time of the meal, the gentlemen adjourned to the library for brandy and cigars, and to discuss the final details before Captain Murry set sail.

Sir Harry asked, “Captain, I need you to take on board some accounting books and letters for the Company. There are a few trinkets too. I have to keep them happy in Blighty, or they will come and see me, God forbid!”.

Sir Harry then became somber, he said. “Look here, Murray, this mutiny is damned awful. I am hearing grumbles in my own troops, you know, and I treat them damned well.” Murray was not sure what to say.

Sir Harry carried on, “This business could be a rum turn for us all. We are outnumbered thousands to one on this continent. If the Sepoys decided to chuck us all out, then so be it.” Sir Harry took a long pull on his cigar and then swallowed a whole glass of Napoleon brandy.

He said, “I have decided the best thing is to empty the safe and get all the loot that the Company has here back to London for safekeeping. I can see you are a trustworthy gentleman with many years of experience with the Company, so I am entrusting it to you.”

That was the end of it. Murray accepted, of course. He worked for the East India Company; he had no choice really.

The following morning before sunrise, a troop of Sepoy arrived at the Anstel with a horse and cart. There were five large sea chests piled high on the back. The Indian soldiers manhandled them to the quayside. The bosun arranged a block and tackle to winch the sea chests aboard they were so heavy. Captain Murray, good to his word, stowed them in his captain’s cabin, which was the safest place on the ship.

Sir Harry and Isabell came to wave them off as they set sail back home. The Anstel traveled down the East Coast of India then out into the Indian Ocean. At the tip of Sri Lanka, on the 7 degrees latitude mark, Captain Murray altered course and turned due west, heading for the coast of Africa. His plan was to arrive somewhere near Mombasa; they could then sail south to the Cape and continue home.

Chapter Two

Shipwreck

Captain Murry suddenly started. The ship had yawed to the port with more force than he would have expected or liked. This brought him back to the foredeck of the Anstel. he had been daydreaming or dreaming; he was not sure.

The Captain looked at the barometer. the pressure was sinking fast. This was not good. Clouds were forming in the southern sky, but the sun just peeped over the horizon to the east. The sun was trying its best, but the weather was not going to let it win. The sea was gray and angry; the wind was knocking the tops off the swell. It was going to be a long, wet day. As the morning passed by, the seas grew rougher and rougher. There was a massive storm to the south of them. Earlier he had adjusted course to head more north-west to outrun the inclement weather. His theory seemed to be working: the seas were behind them now, and the swells looked longer. Maybe they could beat this beast.

The First Mate plotted the position at 1 degree 26 minutes south and 46 degrees 35 minutes east, putting the ship a good three hundred miles off the coast of Africa, which gave them plenty of sea room: the water here was so deep nobody could even measure it. There were no atolls or islands in the vicinity. They would run with the storm, letting her do her worst, then continue on their way.

It was four bells on the first watch when the captain awoke to feel his ship being violently tossed and thrown around the ocean. He had never felt such powerful waves in all of his life. William scrambled out of his bunk and up onto the deck to find the First Mate James looking ashen. He had been on watch when the captain had retired and had stayed as the storm got worse and worse. The waves were now easily twenty feet, and the wind was picking up. Murray knew their position put them north of the Seychelles. But this was cyclone season. Just like a hurricane, a cyclone can gain power using low-pressure zones to create a storm of massive force that will smash anything in its path and travel hundreds of miles across the ocean.

The Anstel had been heading northeast, but the currents and the wind had pushed them off course. The winds were coming from the southeast now but gradually moving to the north. The winds confirmed it for the captain. This must be a cyclone; the normal weather patterns did not move in this direction at this time of year. Rain was pelting the deck. The gale-force wind was pulsing through the rigging. All cloth was down except the small topsails to give steerage. The helmsman was fighting the waves and the wind with all his might, trying to keep them into the wind. The huge wheel continually spun out of his hands. When it stopped, he would grab it and fight to bring them back onto course. Massive waves hit the bow then thundered up over the gunwales, throwing hundreds of gallons of cold seawater across the decks and into the scuppers. The Anstel was well-built in Rotherhithe, the best shipbuilding yard in the world. But that was over thirty years ago now. For the last few years, the Company had not been so keen to do repairs and maintenance. She was creaking and groaning, the poor girl. This was a tough fight for her. If she survived this one, then she would probably have to retire. The damage would be too expensive to repair.

The crew fought on through the night. The waves steadily grew. By midnight, the wind was running at 85 knots, blowing the ship towards the African coastline. There were no stars; they were blind. Celestial navigation only worked if you could plot something. The Anstel bravely fought on into the next night. Waves breaking over the bow flooded the bilges to capacity. Men had been running the manual pumps on two-hour shifts for the last two days. The whole crew were exhausted. Everyone was soaking wet and cold to the bone. There was not a dry place on the ship.

At eight bells the following morning, the entire crew had all been on deck for thirty-six hours straight and were fit to drop. Captain Murray could feel his fifty-one years, every single one of them. He had sent a young lad up into the rigging as a lookout. He had felt terrible about it, but they did not know where they were anymore and could not just rely on luck. The Anstel had been blown north, then west, then southwest as the cyclone had blown itself across the Indian Ocean. The storm was still fierce. The waves were 25 feet high, and the wind was blowing at around 60 miles per hour. Breakers continually crashed over the bows. Then the next swell picked the ship up and threw it through the water, like a toy. The power of the ocean was awesome; you could not fight her, as she always won.

Captain William Murray heard a yell from the lookout. He could see something they could not see from the deck. The Captain and First Mate cupped their ears, showing they needed the information again. A young seaman ran up the lines on the seaward side, so as not to get blown off. The lookout yelled to him, then he yelled to the deck below. “Land Ho! Land Ho!” This could not be; they were a long way from land. The captain peered into the darkness as they were being flung along by the tropical cyclone. Fear started creeping through his guts. There was no land around here. Or had they made a tragic mistake?

Then he saw it. A massive outcrop of land, huge and so very close. It was almost on them. Murray could not control the ship’s direction. The weather was against him. They were like a cork bobbing on the sea. After a few moments, a wave picked them up hurling them at the reef. There was an almighty crash as the hull hit the razor-sharp coral outcrops. She floundered on the rough rocks about half a mile from the shore. The Anstel ground into the coral. Another huge wave picked the stern up and turned her broadside. This, Captain Murray knew, was the end of his beloved ship.

The stricken craft sat perilously on the edge of the reef, exposing her broadside to the wind and the waves. She sat in what seemed like silence for a few seconds, but then, an enormous battery of waves blasted the ship crashing through her superstructure. There was nothing that could stop the force of the waves against the immovable reef. His home for so many years was being smashed to pieces in front of him. The ship was picked up by the largest wave James had ever seen and thrown across the flooded reef with incredible force. The ship plunged back onto the rocks and then rolled over the edge across the open reef. She was dead. Her back was broken. Most hands had been thrown over the side or crushed by the ship as she smashed against the rocks.

Captain Murray saw his First Mate and friend James go over the side with a massive wave, never to be seen again. The last thing the captain saw was the ship’s bell ringing the death toll for his Anstel. It was ripped away by a wave crossing the deck. The same wave took the captain’s feet and dragged him over the side. The water was 150 feet deep here. The rocks were like needles of limestone. He did not stand a chance. His last thoughts were, “finally, after five long years, we meet again, my beloved.” he was ready to meet his wife once again. His thick, sodden coat and clothes dragged him to the bottom.

Chapter Three

Shimoni Reef, Kenya: Present Day

William Brody felt a burning sensation across the top of his head as if his scalp was suddenly on fire. He moved his head from side to side, but the burning would not budge. Brody was slowly waking up. His tongue was thick and dry, and it felt like a badger had shit in his mouth. The swollen football in his head was pushing against the inside of his skull, telling him he was dehydrated and needed to drink some fluids. His brain was throbbing. And the burning would not stop!

He carefully opened one eye. The pain was intense. It shot right up through his optic nerve to the back of his head, like an incredibly bright spotlight shining right into his eye. He shut it again instantly and considered his position.

What time of day was it, and where exactly was he? Vague memories started floating across his semi-conscious mind. Most of the night before he had been drinking with his new-found friend Jonathan. Brody remembered the first bottle of whiskey at the small, old, local bar. Then everything was blank.

He tried to open his eyes again, but the same thing happened. A searing pain ran across his skull, and now he was blinded by a powerful light. Was this bloody basic training again? Was he being held hostage to be interrogated, to see if he would break?

With extreme effort, he managed to roll over and stagger to his feet. Once the urge to throw-up and the dizziness had subsided, he slowly opened his eyes. The incredibly bright East African sun was shining directly through the window onto the top of his bed, adding to the pain from the excessive alcohol.

Brody stumbled towards the small kitchenette in his lodgings. He grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge and downed nearly half of it, regretting the act immediately, as he got a full brain-freeze, making his head even worse.

From there he made his way to the bathroom and got under the shower. After a good twenty minutes of nursing his head, letting the guilt, like the water, flow over his body, he started to feel almost normal again. Brody had always drunk too much, since he was a kid. Where William grew up in London on the estates there was always a drink to be found, way before he was eighteen. In fact, he had been in the army on his sixteenth birthday and already had a good head for liquor. The water started to wash away the hangover, and he was soon feeling better. Brody got dressed slowly. His sluggish body fought every move, but his stubborn resolve won the day. He put his shorts and running shoes on and then headed to the door. After a few long stretches, so the cramps would not come, he headed out down the road in a slow unsteady trot.

He jogged out of the town through the bush. Shimoni was a wild place, like a frontier town that had largely been forgotten over the years. Its bad rap as a slave market now brought tourists to see the caves where the poor lost souls had been kept. Brody had dutifully visited them and seen the rings on the cave walls. The place was eerie; he had not enjoyed it at all. When he was in the dark interior of the caves, he could literally feel the suffering of those poor men, women, and children who were torn from their families and then sent to God knows where, never to return.

After running five miles along small dirt paths and the beach, he reached the headland and decided to head back. Brody had always run to clear his head. It was about the only thing that he did well, that and free diving, or scuba diving. He was a fantastic swimmer and diver; the Special Boat Service had taught him that. His swimming and athletics had been what got him into the Royal Marines; it had certainly not been his brainpower.

Now as he jogged back towards the lodging house he had taken rooms in, Brody was reminiscing on his time in the army. He had done well. It had been a lifetime career for him, until the raid in Somalia where he had been forced to open fire on and shoot some young kids. They had been child soldiers. Taken from their families and brainwashed. Turned into killers. The memory haunted him to this day and had ruined his further career in the Special Boat Service.

Brody had retired at 37, just a couple of years ago, as a full major with a pension. That and his savings had landed him here in East Africa. He was able to live a cheap and enjoyable life in an area of the world he had come to love.

Shimoni was usually about 100 degrees at this time of year. That, combined with almost 95% humidity, made for a very sweaty atmosphere. When Brody reached his rooms, he showered the sweat and dust off him in his small bathroom. His stomach was gnawing at him. He needed fuel. After showering and putting on more shorts and a T-shirt he headed towards what had become his local, the Shimoni Hotel. It had once been an elegant establishment, but that was years ago. Now it was looking a bit tired, with peeling paint and old dusty furniture.

The place was quiet and easy going. Brody regularly drank way too much in the bar and would leave without paying his bill. One of the waiters would help him across the street to his lodgings. The next day, he would be politely asked to pay for the last evening’s whiskey. The system was working well.

Brody had managed to make friends with Njoroge the cook, who had explained he was not a coastal guy. Njoroge had come from way up towards Nairobi and was from the Kikuyu tribe. He had come down on the bus twenty years ago when the place had been full of tourists. Now that was a distant memory. In those days, a Kikuyu cook was prized. They were known for being fantastic meat cooks. A delicacy in the East African tribes was roasted meat. Any meat really: goat, beef, Dik Dik (a small local antelope), or chicken, as long as it could be roasted. The roasting was done over charcoal. The trick was in the freshness of the meat, combined cleverly with local herbs and spices used to marinate it before roasting. Njoroge was an expert. He had been in Shimoni so long he had become part of the hotel. He said it felt like his home. He and Brody had got on well. Brody had taught him how to cook English fried eggs: sunny side up, and the yolk runny. At first, Njoroge had been disgusted with the idea of an uncooked egg, but gradually he had come around. He could now cook Brody a Full English: two fried eggs, bacon, sausage, beans, fried tomato, and bread with a mug of tea. Almost as good as the army.