A literary interlude: through a glass, darkly
Karl May, Durch die Reiche von Afrika (Through the Kingdoms of Africa) (Berlin: Fehsenfeld, 1897)
Karl May as Kara ben Nemsi
Karl Friedrich May (1842-1912) was a popular German writer and the author of more than 30 celebrated adventure novels, most set in the American West, the Near East and Africa. Discovering his muse while in prison for theft, he published his first book - an educational text - in 1875, and experimented with serialized romances, historical novels and fantasies before embarking on the travel tales that made him famous.
The heroes of his novels, Old Shatterhand and Kara ben Nemsi (who are suggested, in the works themselves, to be the same person) are both alter egos of May himself. The author often claimed to have actually undergone the adventures depicted in the novels, although he never visited the western United States or Africa and traveled to the Middle East only after the majority of his books were written. As such, the characters are strongly identified with May’s pacifist and humanistic values: although both Old Shatterhand and ben Nemsi are two-fisted adventurers in the classic tradition, both go to great lengths to avoid killing their opponents, and a recurring plot point involves bound or captured enemies winning free to plague the hero again and again. (To be fair, May’s heroes also tend to escape from captivity with surprising ease, and to have more than a little help from Lady Luck when in their nemeses’ clutches.)
The “native” characters who feature in the novels vary by region. The Native Americans are portrayed as noble savages, simple and honest, whose pure way of life was threatened by the white man’s rapacity. May’s Arabs, while affectionately drawn, are childish, superstitious and cruel in their justice. The Africans are somewhere in between. May was certainly inclined toward the noble-savage view, and those from tribal societies are portrayed similarly to his Indian hero Winnetou, albeit less spiritually mature. But he was also aware of the urban societies of the Sahel - which feature prominently in two of the Kara ben Nemsi works - and while their modernism was an uncomfortable fit with his romanticism, the Abacarist and Belloist religious movements (particularly the latter) strongly appealed to his humanist world-view.
Characters who belong to these movements thus tend to be portrayed differently from other Africans, and are drawn somewhat closer to white Europeans. In this, May echoed some of the racial theorists of the time, who ascribed the modernism of the Malê and other freedmen societies to an infusion of white genes and culture during their period of enslavement, although this echo was surely unconscious, as May was known to be an opponent of scientific racism. And European liberals as well, even in France and certainly in Britain and the German-speaking world, often distinguished the Muslims of West Africa from other Africans, holding the former to be more civilized and more worthy of the white man’s respect.
In Durch die Reiche von Afrika (translated into English in 1899, with a renamed and Americanized hero, as Jack Hildreth in Kanem-Borno), a sequel to the well-received Im Sudan, Kara ben Nemsi, having compassed the defeat of Sudanese slave-trader Ibn Asl, learns that one of his enemy’s lieutenants has escaped westward to join the slaver and warlord Rabih az-Zubayr. He pursues the lieutenant to the Bornu Empire, which at the time was trying to maintain precarious relationships with Britain, France and Egypt while simultaneously subduing the last of its obstreperous feudal vassals and fighting off Zubayr’s forces in the east. There, in the imperial court, the feudal hinterlands and the Belloist religious communes, ben Nemsi and his faithful servant Hadschi Halef Omar find adventures in plenty before continuing on to Adamawa and the lands of the western Sahel…
*******
… The
Empress of Africa pulled into harbor, chugging past the natives’ boats of reeds and wood, startling the cranes and pink flamingos into sudden flight. Wilkinson, the old Englishman who was the Captain, clapped me on the shoulder, and favored Hadschi Halef Omar with a similar farewell. “Ride for half a day down the western road, and you’ll come to the sultan’s palace,” he said. “I hope you find your man - he’s a bad’un, no mistake.”
I thanked him for his many kindnesses and saddled up Rih, my gallant black charger. I patted his flank and whispered in his ear to gentle him as we walked down the gangplank, Halef Omar following behind with his own steed. Firm ground thus gained, we swung into the saddle and rode west.
The lands around the lake were lush with cultivated fields where cotton and foodstuffs were grown, which soon gave way to pasturelands where the Negroes tended their herds. This was scrubland, grasses mixed with a few date palms, but at least it was horse country, not the stark desert where only camels would survive. The natives of this place seemed much like those on the other side of the lake: tall and well-formed, and of an open and friendly nature. They welcomed us with a hospitality like unto the Arabs, and made us eat chops of beef and regale them with our travelers’ tales. Delayed in this manner, it took closer to a full day before we reached the sultan’s city.
The city! No doubt the cosmopolitans of Berlin, or of Vienna or London, would laugh to hear it called thus, but in these wild lands, city it was. The streets were well-paved and clean, with houses of brick and stone, and the communal wells were surrounded by open-air markets with goods from every cardinal point of the compass, where natives mixed with Arab merchants, Greeks, and even Englishmen and Frenchmen. The people were dressed in colorful robes and turbans, and carried themselves with pride; even their camels were bedecked with striped cloth. Not here the servility of the poor men of Cairo, or the mean huts of the Sudan! I could well understand how some people accounted the Bornu not to be natives at all, but instead some lost tribe of Israelites or Assyrians.
Some there were who affected a humbler demeanor, and wore simple white in the heat of the day. “D’you see them?” Hadschi Halef Omar asked me. “These are followers of the Master, who walk in the way of peace and contemplation. They have built schools here and hospitals, and have sent their sons to medical school in Cairo and even in your land.” I had heard of such men, of course, and Halef Omar, himself a contemplative man, often spoke approvingly of the Master Ali bin Bello. No doubt I would soon meet some in the flesh.
In the heart of the city was a large paved square, with a fountain in the center and date palms all around where the people gathered for conversation. To one side was a great mosque, all of stone with a tall domed minaret reaching into the cloudless azure sky. On the other was the palace, of brick but inlaid with polished stones of red and blue which shaped words of the Koran.
There were no guards at the door of the palace, and I became instantly alert: what sultan even in the most peaceful land, let alone a realm at war like this one, would leave the gate open for assassins and thieves? “There is something very wrong here,” I said to Halef Omar. “Be silent as a cat at night, and be ready to fight at my side.” He nodded his acknowledgment, and I loosened the rifle Bear-Killer at my belt and entered the sultan’s home.
My fears were soon realized when I saw a female servant lying on the floor in a pool of blood, a shattered water-jug a few feet away. I knelt to see if anything could be done for the poor girl, but saw that she was dead with a sword-cut through her throat. “We must find the cowardly dog who did this, the accursed murderer, the spawn of Shaitan,” Halef Omar said, and I could not but agree.
And no sooner than he said this did we hear the clash of steel from a room at the end of the hallway. “Quiet will serve us no longer!” I cried. “In there, and quick about it!” Obeying my own command, I dashed in to the rescue.
It was a throne-room, with a rich cushioned divan on a dais at the far end, but I had little time to appreciate it, because the sultan himself was beset by assassins! Richly clad in a deep blue silk jacket and turban with white trousers and under-shirt, that monarch, curved scimitar in hand, was fighting bravely against three foes. Around him were the bodies of the missing guards, fallen in the service of their king, although the assassins’ corpses which littered the floor showed that they had given a good account of themselves. Two guards yet survived, but they were outnumbered and unlikely to live much longer.
I would change that if I could. With a cry, I unlimbered Bear-Killer and wielded it clubwise, delivering a strong blow to the head of one of the sultan’s assailants. Beside me, Hadschi Halef Omar knocked another to the ground, leaving just one to compass the sultan’s death if he could.
“Kill those dogs!” that worthy shouted to his fellow-assassins, who were still hotly engaged with the guards. “Attack them! I will finish the sultan - leave his guards for later!” They turned to do just that, but I was quicker than they: I punched forward with Bear-Killer, striking one in the stomach and doubling him over, and then brought the rifle barrel up to knock out another. I saw that Halef Omar was holding the remaining murderers at bay, and turned my attention back to their leader. He was about to stab the sultan in the heart, and not having time to bring my rifle to bear, I slammed my clenched fist into his temple in the way that had caused the Apache to name me “Old Shatterhand.” He fell heavily to the floor, his work unfinished, the sultan saved.
“Flee!” cried the other assassins, and did just that. “After them!” I called to Halef Omar. “Don’t let them escape!” He obeyed at once, and to my gratification, the guards did as well, leaving the sultan and myself alone in the room.
“A narrow escape, I fear!” I said. “But you are saved from these cowards. Do you know who sent them?”
“Surely it is the slave-lord Zubayr, who wishes to rule this land as he does Wadai. Only he would send hired swords to murder the person of a king in his own throne-room.”
“What a stroke of fortune!” I cried, though the circumstances were hardly fortunate. “My enemy, himself a cowardly slaver, has fled to Zubayr, and it is there that I must find him!”
The sultan’s eyes lit with gratitude. “Unbeliever though you are, I owe you my life,” he said, “and we have a common enemy. You are a most valiant fighter, and tomorrow, you shall lead a company of my finest troops in search of the slave-lord. I name you their captain, and their officers will answer to you with their lives.”
Just then, Hadschi Halef Omar returned to the room, panting with the effort of the chase. “We stopped all but two of them,” he said, “but one flung a jar of oil in my path, and made his escape while I slipped. He is the son of a trollop and a poxed camel, the mud that I scrape off my shoes, the leavings of last year’s vultures…”
“He is all of that, no doubt, but now he will warn his master,” I said, wishing I had gone myself to help with the hunt. “But we must follow anyway: make ready, for tomorrow we ride…”
… It was close to evening on the second day, and I scanned the grassland for signs of the fugitive assassins’ passage, determined that he would lead me to his evil master. I pulled up Rih’s reins to confer with the lieutenant of my fine troops, a tall and handsome man of ebony complexion, resplendent in steel chain-mail with an amulet on his forehead and a Koran hung around his neck in a gilded case. “Look there,” I said, pointing to where the grass had been trampled. “They passed this way not more than an hour ago. No doubt they will camp soon for the night. We will ride until nightfall ourselves, and then I will sneak up to their campsite and hope to learn their plans.”
Soon night had fallen, and forgoing my evening meal, I walked out of our camp. Winnetou the Apache had taught me to track at night, and I used the skill to best advantage, and in less than an hour, I saw a campfire in the distance which surely belonged to my enemies. I dropped to the ground and crawled in slowly, moving silently as the Indians had taught and keeping low so I would not be seen.
It was not long before I heard voices - the two escaped assassins talking among themselves. “We will reach Zubayr’s camp tomorrow,” one of them said, “and then we will be revenged upon these dogs. They say that Ibn Asl’s lieutenant is there, and that he hunts the infidel that killed his master, no doubt the same one that thwarted our plans at the sultan’s palace. He has brought men to our aid, that we will crush the unbeliever forever.”
“But there is something we must do first,” the other said. “Zubayr will not turn aside from attacking the Master’s settlement at N’guigmi, for he hates those men like poison, and striking at them will weaken the Sultan’s rule. He will seize the settlement tomorrow evening, and kill its people or take them for slaves.”
How furious I was to hear of this evil scheme! The slave-trade on the Atlantic was long suppressed, of course, defeated by the British navy and the valiant armies of Sokoto and the Toucouleur, and Bornu, once a slave emporium itself, had banned the practice through the enlightenment of the Master’s teaching, but to the east, the snake of the slave-trade still lived , and it was the duty of all good men to fight it. Silently, I left the murderers’ camp to rejoin my men, because we must protect N’guigmi from such a fate at all costs.
Hadschi Halef Omar was sitting by the fire, no doubt thinking of his Hanneh and their child yet to be born, when I returned to reveal the slave-lord’s plan. “Such evil!” he exclaimed. “And to think that once, in this land, a lone woman clad in gold might walk with none to fear but God!”
“Such may have been true in the time of the great king Idris Alooma,” I said, knowing whence that saying had come, “but now war in its cruelty has come even to those who seek peace. We shall ride to N’guigmi tomorrow and make ready to defend it.”
And so we did. N’guigmi sat by the lakeshore, with a thorn fence like so many native villages, but with the houses uniform and arranged in orderly rows, none bigger or more ornate than any other. The men and women in the fields and boats were clad in simple white, and each was about their tasks. I marveled to see that there was no difference in the work they did: women tended cattle, men washed clothes and pots, both taught the children who had come from many villages to be schooled.
“That is how the Master’s folk live,” Halef Omar said, seeing my surprise. “All the people share all the work, so that none may miss any facet of Allah’s world. The true believer must experience all of God’s creation.”
As I was thinking on this, a man of seventy years strode to the fence, empty-handed. “What is your business here with soldiers?” he challenged. “This is a community of the Master, a place of faith and peace, and we shed no blood.”
“Do you see?” Halef Omar said triumphantly. “Here the Prophet’s followers live in peace as God intended. Can your Christians say the same? Is this not proof that Islam is the true faith?”
“Those who truly follow the teachings of Christ can say the same,” I answered. “Far too many do not - but is that not also true of Muslims? Are we not preparing to defend this village from Muslim slavers?”
“They are dogs, not Muslims,” Halef Omar said, but he fell silent.
I turned back to the marabout, for that is surely what he was. “We mean your people no harm,” I said. “Far from it, in fact - the slave-lord Zubayr plans to attack you tonight with two hundred soldiers, and we have been sent by the Sultan to defend you. We will take up positions around your settlement and prepare to meet the attack.” The marabout nodded his assent and, his business done, returned to his work.
“We should lie in wait behind the thorn so we will not be seen,” the officer of my men said, “and take them by surprise when they come.”
“That’s a good plan,” I agreed, “but in the Sudan, I’ve seen slavers set fire to the thorn-fences, so that the villagers must flee into their clutches or burn. We must stop that from happening at all costs. Half the troops will wait behind the thorn, and half will find a sheltered place outside the village, so that we may fall upon the attackers from behind and stop them from ever reaching the fence.” The officer, Baba Gana by name, obeyed my command, taking half his men behind the thorn while I sought a stand of hedges where the other half could hide.
Soon this had been done, and there was nothing to do but wait for Zubayr’s forces to arrive and give battle. As evening fell, the first sign of them appeared: a cloud of dust in the distance and the sound of hoofbeats growing closer. “Don’t fire until I do,” I told the soldiers, “and then shoot at their horses.”
Zubayr’s men came into sight, and I could see that they were indeed carrying torches to set fire to the thorn. I let them pass my position so that they would be between my men and Baba Gana’s, and then I fired. This time I did not use Bear-Killer, but instead the Henry Carbine, which could fire sixteen shots without reloading. I fired, one shot every two seconds, at the horses of Zubayr and his officers; I was sorry for the poor beasts, who had never asked to join this battle, but if I were to shed as little human blood as possible, that was what I must do. Around me, my soldiers were doing the same.
At last, I could see that the horses were starting to panic. “Now go in among them!” I shouted. “Capture them if you can!” As one, we left the shelter of the hedge and ran toward the enemy, a few of whom had the presence of mind to fire but most of whom fled. And their flight, of course, took them toward the thorn where Baba Gana and his men were waiting. Caught between the two forces, those who still had horses rode away, and the others were easily captured in their disorganized state.
“Now we will take them to the city to face justice,” I said. “Is Zubayr there? Is Ibn Asl’s lieutenant?” But as I surveyed the prisoners, I failed to see either of them, and I knew they had escaped to scheme another day…