The Man Called Brown Condor Read online

  John knew he needed a little laughter. His pilot friend was the only fellow passenger who spoke more than a few words to him. Most ignored his presence. Some shunned him altogether.

  I guess these white folks never saw a black man in first class, at least one who wasn’t waitin’ tables, making beds, or cleanin’ up after ’em.

  Late at night in the dark of his cabin, self-doubt crept in to taunt John. The faintly detectable rhythm of the ship’s engines reminded him of the ever-increasing miles separating him from home. Once, when the liner was in the middle of the ocean, he followed the promenade deck all the way aft to stand at the stern and watch the ship’s frothy wake stretch into the distance and fade away.

  It was a grand ship, but for the most part, a lonely voyage for Robinson.

  Chapter 12

  Marseilles

  THE SHIP APPROACHED THE STRAIT OF GIBRALTAR EARLY IN THE morning. The great promontories rising from Spain to the north and Morocco to the south guard the narrow, eight-mile-wide strait separating the Atlantic Ocean from the Mediterranean Sea and Europe from Africa. In antiquity, the highest pinnacles on each side were called the Pillars of Hercules. John joined a multitude of early risers crowding the ship’s rails to view the narrow passage. From the port side of the ship, John could see Spain and the famous Rock of Gibraltar. He quickly crossed to the starboard side to get his first view of Africa: Morocco. His intermediate destination, Marseilles, France, was still some thirty-four hours away. The ship turned away from Morocco and Algeria to set a course along Spain’s Mediterranean coast. In darkness it passed between the island of Majorca and the Spanish mainland. The historic cities of Valencia and Barcelona and the Pyrenees Mountains forming the border with France slipped past, unseen by the sleeping passengers. In the morning they docked at Marseilles. The ship and most of its first-class passengers would continue on the next day for a grand Mediterranean cruise, but not John Robinson.

  At the base of the gangway, a well-dressed black man wearing western clothes held a sign with the name Mr. John Robinson on it. He was an Ethiopian envoy whose job was to meet John and escort him to his hotel overlooking the old harbor. He gave Robinson a ticket and travel papers for the ship Lamoriciere, which he said would leave Marseilles the day after tomorrow and take Robinson to the French Somaliland port of Djibouti.

  “Mr. Robinson,” the man said, without giving his name, “we think it would be better if you did not broadcast your destination here in this city. Marseilles has a long history as a center of smuggling and intrigue. Your purpose and destination are best left undeclared.”

  John had not thought of his mission in terms of international intrigue, but the envoy suggested, quite seriously, that there were some who might find it convenient if certain experts traveling to aid Ethiopia did not reach their destination. He did not mention Italian Fascists, but John understood he had just been given a warning. After asking if John needed anything further, the envoy excused himself and left John in his hotel room to ponder his new international status.

  Robinson did not take the warning too seriously, but the next morning he decided to join an organized group to see the sights rather than wander about on his own. The hotel concierge arranged for him to join a small tour group. John laughed at himself. Safety in numbers is what they say. The hotel concierge nor anyone else made anything of the fact that he was black.

  Marseilles was France’s gateway to North Africa and the Orient beyond. As such it was a city where one could see a colorful mix of people: French, Spanish, English, German, Italian, Indians, Turks, Chinese, black Africans, and, most of all, Arabs. Marseilles was less French than it was an exotic montage of humanity. Though large, it was not a pretty city. Still, there were structures to impress a black child who had grown up in Mississippi; the Hotel de Ville and the old fortresses of Saint Jean and Saint Nicholas still guarded the original ancient harbor. Too small and shallow for modern ships, it was now used by fishing boats and yachts. Robinson’s group visited the Palais Longchamps with its dramatic fountains and colonnade, and high on a windy bluff overlooking the city and blue Mediterranean, the Basilique Notre Dame de La Garde. In the afternoon, John joined a half dozen tourists with a guide to explore the Quartier Panier, the old town that climbed the hills overlooking the old harbor. They were warned to be watchful of pickpockets as they entered the warren of narrow, dark, climbing, twisting streets, some so steep they were made of stone steps. Old houses and shops lined the streets, many with colorful awnings. John was glad to have a guide; one could easily get lost. If exploring alone, he would be an easy target if there really was anyone interested in doing him harm. (During World War II, the Germans raised most of the Panier to disable the confusing warren as a hiding place for the French Underground.)

  Back at his hotel, John asked the concierge for recommendations for dinner. “Monsieur, Marseilles is famous for its bouillabaisse,” he replied, as if everyone, even a black tourist, should know about Marseilles bouillabaisse.

  John, not easily intimidated, asked what that was.

  The concierge replied as if the whole of France had been slighted. “It is a marvelous seafood soup of course, Monsieur.” He directed “Monsieur Robinson” to “the best restaurant in the city.” And while John found the famous bouillabaisse tasty, it was expensive—and not as good as his mother’s seafood gumbo.

  After a day spent walking for miles, much of it uphill, while enduring warm breezes sweeping across the Mediterranean from the deserts of North Africa, Robinson was bone-tired. He turned in early. Another ship tomorrow, Johnny boy. What have you gotten yourself into? He was too fatigued to worry and dared not think of home. Sleep came heavy and dreamless.

  The French ship Lamoriciere stood at the dock along the Quai de la Joliette at Marseilles’s Port Moderne. Her hull was painted black while her superstructure was white. She had been built in 1920 specifically for the Marseilles–North African trade. A little worse for wear, she was much smaller than the luxurious transatlantic French liner John had travelled in from New York. Only three hundred and seventy feet long, she had a capacity for only four hundred passengers in three classes. John boarded her and was shown to his first-class cabin. It was small, rather plain, but comfortable. After checking his trunk to ensure it had not been tampered with, he walked on deck to join other passengers standing at the rail. They watched as the mooring lines were cast off and the ship eased from the dock. Lamoriciere maneuvered out of the Bassin de la Grande Joliette. With smoke pouring from her two stacks, she headed south into the blue Mediterranean.

  Unlike the trip across the Atlantic, John was surrounded by passengers of all colors: black Africans, both light- and dark-complexioned Egyptians and Arabs, a few Indians, small groups of Chinese or Japanese, and the usual mix of European businessmen and world travelers. Nonetheless, John felt alone. He did not find another American on board. At his assigned first-class dining table sat an Indian, an Englishman, and an Egyptian who spoke English. He could not hide the fact that he was American, but he followed the advice he had been given in Marseilles to keep the nature of his mission to himself. It appeared to John that his fellow passengers did much the same. He got the impression that the world is nervous.

  Lamoriciere sailed around the south end of Sardinia for the French colony of Tunis where it docked. The ship’s purser recognized John standing near the gangway and asked if he cared to go ashore, see the sights. “The ship won’t sail for six hours,” he assured John.

  “I can see ’bout all the people, goats, camels, and old buildings I care to right from the deck here,” he answered.

  Truth was, every new exotic port of call, filled with strange sights, sounds, odors, and people, reminded him of just how far from home the course he had chosen was taking him. Each morning brought another bright day, fresh wind across the deck, his pilot’s eyes on the sky where he had always been most comfortable, his spirits most high, but each night in the cramped, hot cabin, he spent hours fighting in the darkness
the mocking demons of self-doubt and loneliness.

  From Tunis the ship sailed south of Sicily to the Italian-controlled port of Tripoli, Libya, and from there to the Anglo-Egyptian Port Said at the northern end of the Suez Canal. The ship rarely spent more than half a day at any port of call. John lost any desire to go ashore among the vendors and crowds congregating in the harbor areas. At each port a few tons of cargo was exchanged. At Port Said, John watched a Rolls Royce touring sedan carefully lifted from the forward hold, swung outboard, and land dockside.

  I bet if they dropped that, some potentate would chop off a head or two. I wonder if they behead people in Ethiopia. I forgot to ask about that.

  As Lamoriciere made its way down Suez, John was amazed at the French ditch cut through the desert sands.

  At a distance from out on the desert, I bet a ship looks like it’s plowing right through the sand.

  The ship continued down Suez and into the Red Sea for more than a thousand miles, much of the time with Arabia off the port side and Sudan to starboard. At the southern end of the Red Sea, Lamoriciere passed through the straits of Bab al Mandab and barely kissed the Gulf of Aden before turning into the French Somaliland port of Djibouti.

  The ship dropped anchor off shore. The harbor was too shallow for ocean-bound vessels. Small, ancient sailing craft loaded with trading goods crowded the old harbor where the tri-color flag of France flew over the customs building. Laborers carrying heavy sacks on their shoulders swarmed about like ants, loading or unloading lighters to transfer cargo, mostly coffee, to the few steamers waiting at anchor. Ship’s tackle clanked and clanged as booms hoisted loads to or from the lighters.

  John closed his steamer trunk and made sure his cabin attendant understood it was to be put ashore. He then went on deck. As soon as the accommodation ladder was lowered in place, John and other passengers disembarked onto a small, sea-worn vessel that served as a water taxi. The boat’s wheezing gasoline engine labored to shore. From the dock, the Djibouti John saw consisted mostly of whitewashed buildings with roofs of straw or corrugated iron. The air was thick with humidity.

  John had barely taken a step ashore when he heard his name. “Mr. Robinson?”

  The man who called Robinson’s name was a slim bearded black man with high cheekbones and an aquiline nose. He was dressed in fine white cotton, jodhpur-like trousers with puttees, a white shirt, and a dark capelike garment.

  John nodded. “I’m Robinson.”

  “May I introduce myself? I am Ras Mebratu.” He bowed slightly and offered his hand. John shook it. “I have been sent by the emperor himself, to whom I am a second cousin. He has honored me with the privilege of escorting you to Addis Ababa. All arrangements have been made. We will leave by train in the morning. I know you must be tired from your long journey. We will have ample time for a briefing and your questions during the train trip. For now, we have a room for you at the hotel. We will dine there this evening.” The envoy spoke English with a distinct British accent.

  “Thank you for meeting me. I have to admit this is all new to me, all unfamiliar—the travel, the lands I have seen, and,” John swept his arm in a large arc, “so many different people, so many customs and languages. I reckon I got a whole lot to learn.”

  “It will not be so difficult. You will see. Good food and rest and you will be ready for the train tomorrow. Come. Your luggage will be brought to the hotel.” They took an ancient Citroën taxi.

  The hotel was small, old, but John found the food and service good. During dinner there was polite conversation but little serious talk. When John tried to turn the conversation to matters at hand, the envoy answered, “Mr. Robinson, you have come far and I know you must have many questions. Tonight let’s just enjoy the food and good French wine. There will be plenty of time on the train to discuss serious matters. I assure you I will answer all your questions. Please have a good night’s rest. Your journey is not quite finished.”

  John was not much of a drinker. To be polite he sipped at his wine a little during the meal. After dinner, he thanked his host, purchased a copy of the only English-language newspaper available, a two-week-old copy of the Herald Tribune published in Paris, and found his way to his quarters. There was a basket of fruit, a bottle of wine, and a bottle of mineral water on a small table beside a lamp. His steamer trunk was in a corner. Surrounded by sweltering heat, he turned on the ceiling fan, undressed, and flopped on the bed. The old fan made a rhythmic wump-pa-wump tattoo while drawing the exotic sounds and smells of Djibouti in through the open window. Still awake after an hour, John moved to the chair beside the table, turned on the lamp, opened the bottle of mineral water, and picked up the copy of the Herald Tribune.

  Anything to get my mind off home and what the hell I’m doing here.

  He skipped over an article concerning Italy’s protest over the alleged sale of American arms to Ethiopia, but could not avoid a front page article stating, “Mussolini Doubling Troops Already in East Africa.”

  John, my man, you’re in one hell of a spot and nobody to blame but you.

  He turned to less troubling articles. There were several on aviation. Amelia Earhart had set another record, flying nonstop twenty-one hundred miles from Mexico City to Newark, New Jersey.

  I wonder if a black woman had done it there’d be headlines like that. Janet Bragg or Willa Brown could have done it if they had the money and backing.

  One article, headlined “Greatest Mass Ocean Flight Ever Attempted,” stated that the US Navy had begun a flight of forty-six planes flying from Honolulu Pearl Harbor 1,323 miles to Midway Island. Another article that caught John’s eye said that England’s Royal Air Force was seeking recruits to keep pace with Germany’s growing challenge.

  Wonder if they’d take a black man from Mississippi?

  The news stories did little to raise John’s spirits. He turned to the entertainment section. American movies playing in Paris included Devil Dogs of the Air with James Cagney and Pat O’Brien and Bride of Frankenstein with Boris Karloff. The most popular film appeared to be Mutiny on the Bounty with Charles Laughton and Clark Gable. John had seen none of them. The only movies he saw growing up were from the colored balcony of a motion picture theater in Gulfport that had a separate box office window and stairs in the alley for black ticket-holders. He hadn’t seen many movies as a child and they were all silent films back then. He saw his first talkies on the south side of Chicago in a theater with a mostly black audience. Howard Hughes’s Hell’s Angels was his favorite.

  Just as the young pilot was getting sleepy, his eye caught a small article near the bottom of an inside page that set him wide awake. It read, “Captain Anthony Eden, Britain’s traveling salesman of peace, returned from his Continental tour bearing a report of Benito Mussolini’s avowed intention to wage war against Ethiopia.” Sleep was a long time coming.

  Chapter 13

  Train From Djibouti

  THE MORNING CAME TOO SOON. JOHN FELT HE HAD HARDLY GOTTEN to sleep before the bright sun of a new day awakened him. He took a sponge bath, since there was no shower in his room, put on fresh clothes, packed, and was waiting in the hotel lobby when the Ethiopian envoy arrived. His English-speaking host of the previous night was again dressed in white jodhpurs and puttees and wore a wide-brimmed felt hat. He greeted Robinson and, after arranging for John’s baggage to be collected and delivered to the railroad station, suggested breakfast in the hotel dining room. Both ordered French pastry and coffee. After breakfast Ras Mebratu paid John’s hotel bill and called for a taxi, this time a ten-year-old Renault a little worse for wear.

  At the station, John was introduced to several other Ethiopian members of his escort party. Only one of the men besides Mebratu spoke English. The grime-streaked train consisted of a small wood-burning locomotive, a tender overflowing with firewood, two freight cars, and three white passenger cars The European-style passenger cars were divided into compartments boarded directly from the platform. John and the Ethiopians boarded thei
r reserved compartment and settled in for the 488-mile trip to the Ethiopian capital of Addis Ababa aboard the French-built, narrow-gage rail line. Robinson’s anxiety from the night before was displaced by anticipation of the exotic, primitive land that lay before him.

  A few shouts up and down the platform followed by the shriek of conductor’s whistles, and they were off. The morning temperature along the Red Sea coastal plain was nearly one hundred degrees Fahrenheit as the train began its slow, labored climb toward Addis Ababa, which was situated on the cool, fertile Ethiopian plateau at an elevation of nearly eight thousand feet.

  John knew going in that he would not be flying over the friendliest geography a pilot could wish for. In preparation for the job before him, John had read all the resources he could find on Ethiopia—its history, people, geography, and climate. The highland plateau ranges in elevation from three thousand to ten thousand feet and is surrounded by mountains reaching up to and above fourteen thousand feet. Ethiopia, he learned, is the source of the Blue Nile and, because of the snowcapped mountains, is sometimes referred to as the Tibet of Africa. The high plateau is slashed by plunging valleys. In rugged parts of the highlands there are strange-shaped ambas, not unlike the buttes of the American West. The Great Rift Valley slices from Kenya through the plateau, opening into the lowland desert and ending at the Red Sea. To the southeast is the harsh desert bordering Somaliland. To the southwest lay humid tropical lowlands.

  The dirt-streaked window of the compartment had been opened, the only relief from the smothering heat. John sat in silence. Looking out the open window, he was struck by the primitive beauty of the rugged terrain but shocked by the almost total lack of anything common with the modern Western world he had left behind. He saw people living in sunbaked mud huts and occasionally a camel caravan, scenes that appeared to have not changed for a thousand years.