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PALGRAVE STUDIES IN MEDIA AND
ENVIRONMENTAL COMMUNICATION

Digital Games After

Climate Change

Benjamin J. Abraham
Palgrave Studies in Media and Environmental
Communication

Series Editors
Anders Hansen
School of Media, Communication and Sociology
University of Leicester
Leicester, UK

Steve Depoe
McMicken College of Arts and Sciences
University of Cincinnati
Cincinnati, OH, USA
Drawing on both leading and emerging scholars of environmental
communication, the Palgrave Studies in Media and Environmental
­
Communication Series features books on the key roles of media and com-
munication processes in relation to a broad range of global as well as
national/local environmental issues, crises and disasters. Characteristic of
the cross-disciplinary nature of environmental communication, the books
showcase a broad variety of theories, methods and perspectives for the
study of media and communication processes regarding the environment.
Common to these is the endeavour to describe, analyse, understand and
explain the centrality of media and communication processes to public and
political action on the environment.

More information about this series at

https://link.springer.com/bookseries/14612
 Benjamin J. Abraham

Digital Games After

Climate Change
Benjamin J. Abraham
University of Technology Sydney
Sydney, NSW, Australia

ISSN 2634-6451     ISSN 2634-646X (electronic)

Palgrave Studies in Media and Environmental Communication
ISBN 978-3-030-91704-3    ISBN 978-3-030-91705-0 (eBook)
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-91705-0

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer
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The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland
To Samantha
 Acknowledgments

This book project started with the realization that if I was going to take
climate change seriously I needed to do something about it. This book is
that attempt to do something, and I hope it guides and encourages others
to do something as well. From the first presentation in 2014 at the Digital
Games Research Association (DiGRA) Australia conference of the very
initial ideas that would eventually turn into this book, they have been
shaped and guided by so much help and encouragement from friends,
family and colleagues that there are almost too many to thank. After such
a long and drawn out writing process, it also has the tendency to becomes
a bit of a blur, increasing the risk of omitting thanks to people who helped
make this book happen. My deepest thanks go out to everyone who has
helped along the way, whether with feedback and suggestions, or even
simply an encouraging word.
I want to thank in particular my colleagues in the School of
Communication and the Climate Justice Research Centre at the University
of Technology, Sydney, especially my colleagues in DSM. Thanks, in par-
ticular to the legendary trio of Liz Humphrys, Sarah Atfield and James
Meese who always found time to listen to me over the years and without
who’s support I would not have survived the tough years. Thanks to
Darshana Jayemanne and William Huber of Abertay University’s games
program for hosting me during my visit in 2019, for giving me the oppor-
tunity to test the ideas in this book with their excellent students, and for
taking me for the most memorable yuzu shaved ice dessert in Kyoto after
DiGRA. I have to thank the many academic mentors I’ve had the privilege
of having over the years, from whom I have learned so much about the

vii
viii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

academy, research, writing and being part of an intellectual community:

my PhD supervisor Maria Angel, my career guru Tom Apperley, my intel-
lectual idol Andrew Murphie, and many, many, many others. Without the
extremely generous support of the UTS Science Laboratory, particularly
Dr. Ronald Shimmon and Dr. Dayanne Mozaner Bordin, the analysis of
the PS4 APU and the whole of Chap. 7 would have been completely
impossible. I am deeply in their debt for taking on the project with the
pathetic “budget” I had. I also owe much to Christian McCrea, both for
encouragement and guidance, and for providing the phrase ‘periodic table
of torture’ to describe the results of this same analysis. My deepest thanks
as well to all the game developers who responded to my survey in early
2020, providing energy usage figures and power bills that enabled Chap.
4 to be as detailed as it is.
This book has benefited immensely from the expertise and attention of
various readers of drafts and chapters: Hugo Bille, Julius Adamson, John
Groot, Mark Videon, Eric Zimmerman, Jackson Ryan and others—as well
as the encouraging environment and occasional input from members of
the IGDA Climate Special Interest Group, the journalist and game indus-
try groups I have spoken to about the project and shared initial findings
with. Without the constant, unconditional support of the most tight-knit
gaming community I have ever been involved with—The Shoot Fam—I
would have gone crazy long before finishing: may all your drops be god
rolls. Similarly, my closest friends ‘The Dads’—Terry Burdak, Brendon
Keugh, and Daniel Golding—all my gratitude and love to you three, I
could not ask for better mates. My parents, Alison and Craig, who have
always encouraged me to pursue my weird, niche, and more out-there
projects, and unconditionally supported me through all my questionable
career decisions: I owe you both more than words can convey. This book
is in no small part a reflection on your patience and generosity, as wonder-
ful parents as could ever be hoped for. To my brother Nick, who was right
there with me for so many formative gaming experiences, playing Halo 2
co-op over sweaty summers holidays. And finally, to my partner Sam, who
has put up with far more grumpiness and exasperation from me than she
should ever have to, as I tore my hair out, swore and shouted and gener-
ally procrastinated finishing this or that—this book is dedicated to you.
Love you Sammy.
I hope this book acts as a catalyst for change and stands as a signpost for
how to make that change happen. I hope it serves as a testament to the
 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS ix

importance of climate action right now in every part of both our work and
leisure, and the transformation of the digital games industry which I know
so many of us care such a great deal about. Any errors or mistakes remain-
ing are mine and mine alone.
 Contents

1 Why Games and Climate Change?  1

Costly Diversions   5
Conceptualizing the Crisis   7
Outline of Chapters  16
References  23

2 How Can Games Save the World? 27

Green and Climate Games  31
How Do Games Change Minds?  39
Ideology in Games  42
ARMA 3’s Aesthetic Vision of a Climate Future  48
Conclusion  52
References  58

3 What Is an Ecological Game? 61

Ecological Resonances in Game Discourse Metaphors  63
Features and Dynamics of the Survival-Crafting Genre  66
Crafting as Accelerating Technological Efficiency and
Accumulation  71
The Ecological Game  76
Conclusion  83
References  85

xi
xii Contents

4 How Much Energy Does it Take to Make a Videogame 89

Solo Developers  95
Small Teams  95
Large Studios  98
Triple A Mega-Studios 101
Rovio 102
Ubisoft 103
Electronic Arts 104
EA Dice 106
Publishers and Platform Holders 107
Nintendo 107
Sony 108
Microsoft 110
Travel and Flights 113
Total Game Development Emissions in 2020 114
Conclusion 118
References 120

5 The Carbon Footprint of Games Distribution123

The Emissions of Sending Discs Around the World 125
A Case Study of Australia: Estimating Disc-Based Distribution
of PS4 Games 129
The Emissions of Digital Distribution 136
Conclusion 144
References 145

6 The Carbon Footprint of Playing Games149

Console Energy Use & Carbon Emissions 151
PlayStation 152
Xbox 152
Nintendo 153
The Importance of Energy Efficiency 160
Games After Climate Change 163
Conclusion 173
References 175

7 The Periodic Table of Torture179

Testing the Advanced Processing Unit 184
Element No. 12: Magnesium (Mg) 191
 Contents  xiii

Element No. 13: Aluminium (Al) 194

Element No. 22: Titanium (Ti) 197
Element No. 24: Chromium (Cr) 199
Element No. 28: Nickel (Ni) 201
Element No. 29: Copper (Cu) 205
Element No. 30: Zinc (Zi) 208
Element No. 31: Gallium (Ga) 210
Element No. 46: Palladium (Pd) 211
Element No. 47: Silver (Ag) 216
Element No. 48: Cadmium (Cd) 220
Element No. 49: Indium (In) 222
Element No. 50: Tin (Sn) 223
Element No. 56: Barium (Ba) 224
Element No. 79: Gold (Au) 225
Element No. 82: Lead (Pb) 226
Element No. 83: Bismuth (Bi) 228
Conclusions 229
References 231

8 Where to from Here?237

Action for Game Developers 240
Hardware Manufacturers, Publishers and Platform Holders 242
Players and Everyone Else 244
Fighting for a Green Future for the Games Industry 246
References 247

Index249
 List of Figures

Fig. 4.1 Game developer emissions around the world. Full table online:
https://bit.ly/3yGY7wT114
Fig. 7.1 The PS4 APU. (Image courtesy iFixit.com, Creative Commons
BY-NC-SA Walter Galan. Used with permission) 185
Fig. 7.2 Full teardown of the PS4 console. (Image courtesy iFixit.com,
Creative Commons BY-NC-SA Sam Goldheart. Used with
permission)186
Fig. 7.3. CC BY-SA 4.0—Emeka Udenze, with additional shading to
indicate elements present in the sample. Light grey indicates
detection in the sample, dark grey indicates detection, likely in
higher quantities 188

xv
 CHAPTER 1

Why Games and Climate Change?

Games and heat are inextricably linked. Growing up in Australia, playing

games during summer holidays meant periods of grueling physical endur-
ance punctuated by retreats to cooler parts of the house. As a young teen-
ager, my childhood room was on the top floor of my parents’ split level
and had a large single-glazed window and thinly insulated roof. These
materials offered poor protection from the blazing sun and ambient air
temperature outside, which often built up precipitously over the long,
unrelenting Australian summertime. Temperatures both outside and in
often reached over 40C. My room would remain at this temperature hours
after the outside had cooled down, the environmental heat compounded
with the additional burden of waste heat from my gaming PC or chunky
CRT television.
When I think about the future of digital games in the context of our
warming planet, I often return to this experience, and the profoundly
pragmatic decisions it forced upon me: sometimes it was simply too hot to
play games, too hot to sleep. Often I entered into a calculus about moving
to a cooler part of the house, or whether I could afford to play videogames
and further heat the room (I almost always did, and suffered the conse-
quences). The dilemma of what to do when it becomes too hot to play
games, and the questions it raises about where to go, or what to do about
the waste byproducts of games (like heat) informs the perspective this

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 1

Switzerland AG 2022
B. J. Abraham, Digital Games After Climate Change, Palgrave
Studies in Media and Environmental Communication,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-91705-0_1
2 B. J. ABRAHAM

book takes on the increasingly pressing questions and multiple, intercon-

nected dilemmas facing the global games industry within the context of
our rapid heating world.
It has been all too easy, at least until very recently, to treat climate
change as something ‘coming’, as a problem for tomorrow rather than
today. However, recent events have started to erode the sense that there
may be some time left, some distance between ‘now’ and the ‘then’ in
which our climate changes. Climate change has arrived, both as a gradual
ratcheting up of a background risk and as new normal increasingly punc-
tuated by extreme events; from the devastating El Niño amplified drought
that precipitated the catastrophic Australian summer bushfires of 2019–20
which burned the length of the continent; to the record breaking cyclone
season of 2020 which saw tropical cyclones of unprecedented strength like
Super Typhoon Goni, that devastated the Philippines; to the most damag-
ing monsoon flood season in Asia, that caused $32bn damage in China
alone, killing 278 people (Nuccittelli & Masters, 2020). The growing
ferocity and impact of extreme weather events begins to threaten to dis-
rupt modern ways of living which depend on uninterrupted global supply
chains, predictable patterns of energy demand, and weather conditions
that are conducive to workers being able to simply go to work every day.
All of the threats to these systems will eventually make their way home to
the various spheres in which we make and play digital games. If carbon
emissions continue to rise unchecked and the planet continues its precipi-
tous trajectory, then serious and significant global shocks of an unpredict-
able nature and scale are, even according to the most conservative scientific
voices, going to threaten everything about how we live our lives today
(Flannery, 2005; IPCC, 2018; Rockström et al., 2009; Dull et al., 2010;
Atwood, 2015; Parker, 2017). These threats are, of course, not evenly
distributed nor are they faced uniformly across the globe. There are deeply
political, often deeply unjust, consequences to the fact that both the great-
est number of people and those who are the most exposed to climate
threats tend to be located in poorer, less developed nations. It is partly for
this reason that one of Wainwright & Mann’s (2018) political futures out-
lined in their book Climate Leviathan involves the rise of a ‘Climate
Maoism’ out of an Asian experience of being on the front-lines of climate
disasters, and an unwillingness to bear the brunt of Western nations’ fossil
fuel profligacy. An outlandish possibility to some, perhaps, but certainly
not beyond the realms of possibility. What sort of challenges and conse-
quences would the games industry face in a world dominated by a populist
 1 WHY GAMES AND CLIMATE CHANGE? 3

climate dictator devoted to harnessing the frustrations and channeling the

demands of the masses worst affected by climate disasters? What happens
when the current already-shaky neoliberal political order falls, and proves
inadequate to the task at hand? In a future facing real resource and carbon
constraints, how highly would we priorities the making and playing games?
What if we had to choose whether to play games or run the air condition-
ing? Are we ready for that?
In a context of “everything change,” as Margaret Atwood (2015)
describes the climate crisis, games will increasingly be seen as integrated
with the rest of life. So while it might seem trivial or perverse depending
on where one is situated to be concerned with the fate of a leisure industry
in the face of arguably more serious disruptions, this seems to me all the
more reason to start the process now of thinking about what climate
change means for games, and what they can be done about it before being
forced to act by events outside our control. Bringing the climate crisis
‘home’ to all of our lives, all of our workplaces, all of our hobbies, is the
necessary first step in acting to reverse climate action. We need to start to
understand what those actions could be, or will need to be, as well as what
constraints we are likely to face. The eight chapters that form this book
raise some arguments that, no doubt, will be contentious, and are by no
means the final say—things are changing rapidly, and the research and
findings contained in this book may well shift as things like the renewable
energy transition gathers speed, as the climate crisis continues, and hope-
fully as more and more people and organizations get on board with seri-
ous, sustained action. Beginning with more traditional game studies
theory and analysis (Chap. 2), including a close reading of games in the
‘survival-crafting’ genre (Chap. 3), the book moves beyond these to focus
on how games get made, and the associated climate and environmental
costs. It is a picture that some readers may be uncomfortable with, and
draws on literature that does not typically show up in either academic or
industry books on videogames—from corporate reporting documents to
electronics handbooks and scientific research on mining processes and
emissions. I try and make these discussions as accessible as possible to the
general reader but some complexity is unavoidable given the subject mat-
ter. One whole chapter (Chap. 7) is devoted to the molecular makeup of
the electronics in the PS4, tracing a speculative ‘periodic table of torture’
that entails a diffuse and tangled network of harms. These emerge from
the results of an inductively coupled plasma mass spectrometry (ICP MS)
test, a procedure that analyzes the elemental makeup of the otherwise very
4 B. J. ABRAHAM

ordinary consumer electronic device that is the PlayStation 4—already

rapidly approaching obsolescence—finding a host of exotic substances.
The analysis allows for the identification and subsequent investigation of
the most basic elemental components of the console’s main chip, where
they have come from, and what sorts of work and emissions are entailed in
producing them.
Whatever our climate future holds, change is coming to games, and it
is coming faster than we might expect. Based on what we know about
planetary bio-physical limits, as well as the political and economic con-
straints we face, it seems quite likely that we may, much sooner than we
would like, be faced with some stark choices—choices as an industry, as
researchers and scholars, as designers and players. Choices like whether to
launch a new console platform with new and improved specifications, or
making do with existing hardware, maintaining it for longer, squeezing
more juice out of it through other means. Choices between focusing our
research efforts and our advocacy on things that might benefit a modest
number of players or that might benefit everyone through concrete and
measurable reductions in actual emissions. It is clear that a conflict is brew-
ing between the way the existing digital games industry is economically
and politically organized and our goals for a livable planet. Facets of this
conflict are becoming apparent as well; conflicts between the regimes of
player engagement the industry creates through game design, marketing
and genre conventions, and the need to decarbonize and reduce environ-
mental footprints of its now massive player base; conflicts between the
reliance on a ‘new’ hardware generation every few years, unrepairable and
un-upgradeable devices, and the urgent need to sustainably use precious,
finite resources; conflicts between the need for large corporations to pro-
duce a sufficient rate of return for investors, and the critical importance of
acting ethically and responsibly in the world.
Limiting the effects of catastrophic climate change will hopefully (and
if it has not already) lose its status as ‘optional’ to political electorates, as
the increasing evidence of our worsening predicament swirl around us
almost daily. Climate issues are poised to become a central organizing and
determining feature of all of contemporary life, work, and leisure to a
degree we have not seen since perhaps the Second World War. What this
means for those of us in the field of games studies, what it means for devel-
opers and others who work in and around the industry itself, from stream-
ers to journalists, to the players that exist at the end of the huge chains of
logistical networks and infrastructures that form the machinery of the
 1 WHY GAMES AND CLIMATE CHANGE? 5

modern games industry—that is what this book sets out to just begin to
describe. It is a huge task, and one that I cannot hope to complete. It is
the aim of this book to ‘open the door’ so that others might take up these
challenges, take these necessarily broad sketches and flesh them out in
much greater detail. The scope of this task is reflected in the length of the
book (longer than I’d like). It is my hope that in spite of this, readers can
find the chapters that provide most what they are after. For scholars inter-
ested in debates about games effect on players, Chaps. 2 and 3. For mem-
bers of the game development community—Chaps. 4, 5, and 6 in particular
may help provide a concrete sense of the scope of the industry’s emissions
and why it is so important to do something about them. For scholars
interested in the materiality of media, Chap. 7 may hopefully offer new
details into the actual stuff and workings of computation, and provide new
avenues of investigation for mapping and analyzing high tech devices that
rely on the same sorts of computational machinery as games hardware.
While most of the chapters can be read on their own, there is also a
broader argument that stretches across the arc of the book about the
necessity of concrete action on the emissions intensity of the games indus-
try today and why (and how) that must be our top priority. It is my firm
belief that an industry-wide commitment to carbon neutrality is utterly
essential. Anything less than that is simply insufficient. Before we get to
that discussion, however, it is important to get a sense of how and why
games are not innocent when it comes to the climate crisis—where their
industrial and material outputs are plugged into the same global systems
using up the earth. We also need to understand and locate the causes of
the climate crisis, before we can begin our search for adequate and appro-
priate remedies.

Costly Diversions
The games that we have been playing, for all the innocent pleasures they
may bring, are profoundly entangled with the global processes that are
fueling and deepening the climate crisis. Games are played on hardware
that is energy intense and generative of significant ecological harms, both
at the time of use and over a device’s lifecycle. Made from minerals dug
out of the ground using fossil fuels, packaged in plastics derived from pet-
rochemicals, designed and assembled often under intense labour condi-
tions, and finally shipped around the world as part of global supply chains
producing value for shareholders. Each of these are processes that are
6 B. J. ABRAHAM

increasingly well-documented and understood, including for their role in

our current crisis. This knowledge has yet to have much purchase on either
the strategic outlook of the industry itself, on the nature of the games that
are made and sold, or on the consumer demand that businesses are ulti-
mately responding to. Games as a sector require vast amounts of electrical
energy while releasing noticeable amounts of thermal energy into the
sometimes already quite heated spaces in which we play (as any old school
LAN party attendee can attest). When we are done with our discs and
devices, when they break, they frequently return to the ground to leech
heavy metals and other toxic mixtures of both rare and common elemen-
tary materials back into the heterogenous earth that is called ‘landfill’.
Recycling of electronic devices like mobile phones and LCD TVs barely
begins to make a dent in this process, and the games industry has so far
largely escaped significant political or consumer activism to force the issue
of the end-of-life disposal or recycling of computer hardware.
None of this can be separated from the dominant political economic
system and its global effects that are felt disproportionately and unevenly
in the global south. Whether the game industry can be made to acknowl-
edge these issues, and how it responds to these challenges will be the
measure of its ability to occupy a legitimate place in a world with a changed
climate. It also still remains to be seen whether the games industry is capa-
ble of the depth and maturity of leadership that has thus far often eluded
it. Thinking along climate and energy intensity lines, I hope this book
shows, can also be an incredibly fruitful and productive exercise for an
industry which has long been (or, at the very least long been viewed as
being) mired in a kind of perpetual adolescence: an industry of toys for
boys. There are encouraging signs that this is changing (Golding & Van
Deventer, 2016; Chess, 2017; Ruberg, 2020). Thinking through the
implications for climate action within the games industry could be one
more front on which to pursue real advances in the industry, to pressure
for yet more of the necessary ‘growing up’ which still remains to be done.
Gaming is still, by and large, a leisure activity—and presently it is a rela-
tively carbon intensive one. Chapters 4, 5, and 6 attempt to put as con-
crete a figure as possible on exactly how intense, in order to move forward
the conversation towards the essential work of abatement and mitigation.
To know what sort of environment games and game players might face in
the future—both in the sense of our physical-climactic environment and
the political economic environment—it is necessary to understand the
nature of the unfolding crisis as well.
 1 WHY GAMES AND CLIMATE CHANGE? 7

Conceptualizing the Crisis

Anthropogenic (human driven) climate change can be understood in any
of a number of different ways. Most obviously, it is an ongoing process of
increasing CO2 levels in the atmosphere and dissolved in the oceans; it is
the ‘greenhouse effect’ of trapping more solar radiation in the atmosphere,
triggering rising temperatures and sea levels; it is an increase in the statisti-
cal ‘risk’ of extreme climate events from this greenhouse effect; it is the
consequence of a loss of carbon sinks like rainforests due to land clearing
for farming and development, further accentuating the effects of already
high emissions levels, and so on. Many of these formulations, however,
merely describe the symptoms rather than the cause of the crisis itself. One
can diagnose the problem of climate change in a way such that the analysis
finishes at its proximate cause—the release of carbon into the atmo-
sphere—without ever really examining why it is occurring. One can even
do so quite easily, and without recourse to a particular politics or entailing
any given action, as many climate scientists wish to do. As Australian cli-
mate scientist Tim Flannery (2005) points out, it is not even that difficult
actually to pull carbon out of the atmosphere, but it is needed at such a
scale that it would be a truly global effort. Flannery’s (2017) favored solu-
tion (one of many) is mid-ocean kelp farming, deploying fast growing
seaweed to draw down significant global emissions. Another widely
reported paper analyzed the financial cost of planting and managing a
massive international program of reforestation across the globe (Bastin
et al., 2019). The trouble with both ideas, as good and perhaps even nec-
essary as they are, is that they don’t do anything to address the underlying
problem. A similar narrowness of thinking leads to other inadequate
responses such as engineering solutions like carbon capture and storage,
or the belief that carbon simply needs to be ‘priced in’ to markets, both of
which do little if anything to change the underlying structural—which is
to say political and economic—causes (Bryant, 2019; Moore, 2015;
Wainwright & Mann, 2018).
In another sense though, this myopic view remains the somewhat valid
double of a larger, more encompassing critique—climate change is actu-
ally only an existential problem for us and other forms of life that evolved
or existed during the Holocene (the last ten thousand of so years). The
planet’s alleged crossing of a geological threshold into the deadly
Anthropocene (Zalasiewicz et al. 2017), even the planet’s sixth major
‘extinction event’ will not cause the universe, or even life on the planet to
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he had been well compensated for his compulsory retirement from
active life and expected to invest his capital in some small business,
to which affluent position, under ordinary conditions, he never could
have aspired with any degree of confidence. Wilson’s disposition was
to go back to the sea with me, so I bought the “Nettie H,” a handy
little steamer, and put her into the Chinese smuggling trade. I took
command of the steamer, with Leigh as sailing master, and put
Wilson in charge of the schooner, as I could trust him with the least
anxiety. He had none of Leigh’s love for liquor and the result of his
carelessness with the “Ferret” had made him as careful as a Scot.
While the “Nettie H” was being fitted out, the authorities warned me
that they knew what I was up to and it would go hard with me if
they secured proof of their suspicions, but, knowing they were only
shooting in the air, I laughed at them.
If this business of carrying Chinese under cover had been as
productive of adventure as it was of profits, I would have stuck to it
indefinitely, but it was so absolutely devoid of excitement that it
palled on me. After we had made eight or nine trips, which more
than repaid my financial losses ashore, I withdrew from the trade,
with the idea of returning to the seductive West Indies, where I
imagined there were higher-class operations to be conducted, and
more thrilling times to be found. While I was disposing of my ships
and finally closing up my Australian affairs, I was in Sydney for
several weeks and stopped at the Imperial Hotel, where I met and
became well acquainted with Guy Boothby, the English novelist.
Though he dreamed away his inborn love of adventure, while I
industriously practised mine and made it my life, he was a good deal
of a kindred spirit, and in the course of our numerous long talks I
told him enough about my experience with the Beautiful White Devil,
without going into any of the detailed and intimate facts which have
been told in these confessions, so that he subsequently wove a
romance about her, using her sobriquet as a title for the story.
Accompanied by Leigh and Wilson, who were going only as far as
England, I boarded a steamship for London, on my way back to New
York. It would have been easier and quicker for me to have returned
by way of San Francisco, but I involuntarily selected the roundabout
way, to soon find that it led me into a unique and altogether
unexpected experience.
 CHAPTER XIII
ADVENTURES ON THE NILE

WHEN I finally forsook Australia, near the close of 1889,

accompanied by Leigh and Wilson, who had paid a penitentiary
penalty for my revengeful ambition and their own carelessness, I
was in no particular hurry to get anywhere, but had no thought of
stopping off at any point short of London until we reached
Alexandria. Immediately on our arrival there I was suddenly seized
with a freak of fancy, as we nonchalantly speak of the immutable
decrees of Fate when we wish to show an independence of action
we do not feel, to visit Cairo, and without waste of time and energy
in mental argument I sent my dunnage ashore by one of the
thousand or more small boats which viciously assaulted the ship
from all sides. My two companions, after their trying times in
Melbourne, were anxious to get back among their own people, so
they went on to London, which decision was reached without the
slightest effort to conceal their comments on my erratic disposition,
while I proceeded to the ancient capital of the Kings of Egypt—those
glorious old marauding monarchs who made despotism a fine art
and graft a religion. There I was projected into a most alluringly
adventurous undertaking. Though failing utterly of its high purpose,
it was by no means devoid of compensations, for it initiated me far
enough into the mysteries of departed days so that I considered
myself at least an entered apprentice, and, furthermore, it carried
me into close relationship with an exquisitely beautiful woman,
which, next to plotting against peace and fighting out the plan, is
always the thing most to be desired. As a matter of fact it is the rule
in the Orient, where man is less virile and more devious and discreet
than in the newer world, that a handsome woman is a part of every
properly promoted plot, and this one was no exception.
Under my British name of George MacFarlane I stopped at
Shepheard’s Hotel, then the home of all pilgrims, and gave myself up
to the enjoyment of new scenes while I waited, in no sense
impatiently, for the development of the situation through whose
coming I had been summoned. It was at the height of the tourist
season, following the Christmas holidays, and there was an
abundance of company, made up of cultured Europeans and a few
Americans of gentle birth, for that was before Cairo was over-run
with the over-rich. The time was delightfully whiled away for a
month before anything happened to indicate the reason for my
being there, but within less than half of that time I had renewed
acquaintance with the man who was really the key to the situation,
though I did not suspect it at the time. He and I had been strangely
thrown together some years before, under conditions which
provoked rather an intimate knowledge of each other, and when we
met on the street one day the recognition was instant and mutual.
He did not inquire into my business but simply asked what name I
was travelling under, in order that he might not embarrass me. He
stood in close and confidential relation to Tewfik Pasha, the Khedive,
and on that account it is best that there should be no hint, even
now, as to his name or nationality.
I wished to see the titular ruler of Egypt at close range, and through
my old companion-in-arms I secured an invitation to the Khedive’s
annual ball at the Abdin Palace. This function, which naturally was
the event of the year, was rendered impressive by all the artistry of
the East, and it was a most brilliant spectacle. At the ends of every
step in the long stairway leading up to the palace stood immobile
footmen, who suggested past glories despite their costume, which
was decidedly English, save for the ever-present fez. Inside, there
was an endless succession of long mirrors set in the walls, which
multiplied the jewels of the women and the gay uniforms of the
officers and diplomats into a flashing mass of colors; countless
palms scattered profusely through the large rooms, and gorgeous
chandeliers illuminated with candles, but there was not so much as a
hint of furniture. Had there been any place where the guests could
lounge or sit, beyond the floor, the chances are that some of them
would have stayed there until the next day, at least, in the absence
of physical violence as an aid to their departure. The only ladies
present were Europeans and some few favored Americans, but from
wide corridors behind the musharabiyeh, or fretwork around the
frieze of the walls, the Khedivah and her women attendants had a
good view of the proceedings without danger of being seen. They
were equally secure from any possibility of intrusion, for every
avenue that led in their direction was guarded by offensively
haughty eunuchs.
I was purposely close to the end of the long line of people who were
presented to the Khedive, for I wanted to study him. He was about
five and a half feet tall, with straight black hair, black moustache, an
olive complexion, brown eyes that were more than alert, and a
rather Roman nose, giving a Jewish cast to his face, which always
wore a very bored expression except when he was interested. His
hand was small but firm—such a hand as would commit murder if
the owner were sure it would not be found out. There was nothing
of the brave man in his looks or actions. Polite and insinuating by
nature, he was never born to lead. Rather, he suggested the favorite
and tool of the Sultan, who would take some small chance of losing
his head with a sufficiently large reward in the other side of the
scale. He wore that night, and always, a single-breasted frock coat,
like that of an Episcopal clergyman. He spoke English correctly but
with an accent, and aversion as well; French he loved and spoke like
a Parisian. I had been given advance information on this point, so
when I was introduced, following a string of Englishmen and
Americans, I addressed him in French. Instantly the weary look
vanished and his face lighted up until he became almost handsome.
“Ah,” he exclaimed, as he gripped my hand with more force than I
had previously seen him display, “you are a Frenchman. I am
delighted.”
I made some polite reply and he went on, almost excitedly, “I love
the French language, but I do not like the English. I speak it only
because I have to. The Khedivah is more fortunate. She does not
speak it at all, and she never will learn it.”
We exchanged commonplaces for a moment and I passed on,
wondering to what extent England could trust this man, who hated
her tongue and made no secret of it.
Cairo has been described so often and in so many ways by people
who had nothing better to write about that I have no wish to add to
the literature on that subject, but I cannot refrain from speaking, in
passing, of one unusual scene which, so far as I have read, has for
all of these years escaped the attention of literary loiterers. With my
mind far back in centuries that are forgotten, in lands devoid of
imperishable monuments like those around me, I had stayed on the
summit of Cheops so long, one afternoon, that my dragoman
declared I would have trouble in reaching the bottom before dark.
Half-way down I paused for a glimpse at Cairo, with every minaret
standing out boldly in the strong light. Then, suddenly, almost at my
feet, the sinking sun created the shadow of the Great Pyramid, and
it began to move. It advanced almost imperceptibly, at first, but
gathered headway quickly and in a moment it was rushing across
the twelve-mile plain toward the city with the speed of an express
train, as it seemed to me; I am sure no race horse could have kept
pace with it. When the shadow reached the Mokattam Hills it paused
for an instant and then began, slowly and more slowly and with
apparent difficulty, to climb the high side of the Citadel Mosque.
When it was half-way up the wall the sun dropped out of sight like a
shot and we were buried in Egyptian darkness, which, be it said, is
no simple figure of speech. In a few minutes, however, we were able
to complete our descent of the gigantic steps by the light of the
brilliant afterglow, which spread its soft radiance over the land.
As I was enjoying my after-dinner cigar one evening in a quiet
corner of the garden in front of the hotel, I was approached by three
women pedlers, apparently of the fellah class. They wore the
common blue kimono-like garment, held together seemingly by luck,
and their small black veils were thrown over their heads, leaving
their faces bare and thus placing them outside the pale of Egyptian
respectability. I was about to walk away to avoid their pestering,
when my eyes met those of the one who was in the lead, and
instantly I was attracted in place of being repelled. Great, brilliant
eyes they were; not fickle and flirtatious, like those of the thinly
veiled beauties of the harem who were seen in their coupes on the
Shoobra Road every afternoon, nor sullen or sensuous, like those of
the class to which her garb gave her claim; but steady and sincere,
wide-open and frank, and in them shone a light that converted into
specks the lanterns with which the grounds were illuminated. Such
eyes do not come in one generation, not even by chance, nor are
they born of the soil. Her face was of the pure Egyptian type, gentle
in its contour and refined in every line, with perfectly arched
eyebrows and a mass of hair as black as her eyes, and her easy
carriage emphasized the grace of her tall, lithe figure, the curves of
which not even her coarse robe could entirely conceal.
Her sparkling eyes, turned full on me and ignoring all else, told me
as plainly as words could have done that she had some message for
me, and, suspecting that the moment for which I had been waiting
for weeks had arrived, I walked slowly toward her, as though in a
mood to barter. As we met, seemingly somewhat disconcerted by my
steady gaze of profound and unconcealed admiration, she drew her
uncouth veil across her face and held out her hands, like one trained
to tourist trade, that I might examine her wonderful rings. Those
hands could never have known work, they were so soft and small,
and arms more perfectly rounded were never modelled in marble by
a master. Plainly this woman was not of the servant class, to which
her companions as clearly belonged. One of her hands was half-
closed and as she laid it in mine it opened and a small piece of
folded paper fell into my palm. Long accustomed to ways out of the
ordinary, I gave no sign, beyond an involuntary start which she felt
but no one else noticed, and proceeded with outward calmness, and
assuredly with much deliberation, to select a ring, which I purchased
as a souvenir of our first meeting. It was set with an uncut ruby in a
band of gold so fine that it was removed from her tiny finger, which
it encircled nearly twice, simply by pressing the ends outward. Not a
word passed between us except as to the price of the ring, over
which there was no haggling. The women who were with her made
a pretence of showing me their wares, but it was only a show for the
benefit of any inquisitive persons who might be watching, and
without urging me to buy they passed on. I strolled after them and
was interested in observing that as they approached other guests
the woman who had slipped me the note remained in the
background, with her face veiled, leaving commerce to her
companions. They attempted to make only a few sales and then
disappeared.
Curious to a degree that surprised me, as to the contents of the
communication which had come to me so strangely, but fearful of
being watched, by I knew not whom, it was some time before I
went to my room to read the note by the light of a tallow candle.
The mysterious missive read: “You are Captain Boynton. Are you
willing to undertake a difficult and perhaps dangerous mission?
Answer to-morrow night through the channel by which you receive
this.”
Here was a romantic promise of something new and real in the way
of excitement, for I could imagine nothing stereotyped growing out
of such an unusual beginning, and I rejoiced. The answer to the
inspiring invitation, which I promptly burned from discretion while
sentiment told me to keep it, required no thought, and as I am not
much given to the exertion of energy in seeking solutions for difficult
problems that will soon supply their own answers, I did not greatly
concern myself as to the purpose of the plot in which I was sought
as a partner. Inasmuch as the only man in Cairo who knew me as
Captain Boynton, and who was acquainted with my favorite
occupation, was a confidant of the Khedive, it naturally occurred to
me that the oily Tewfik Pasha was mixed up in it in some way, and I
suspected that it involved another secret movement against British
rule in Egypt. The latter suspicion was soon verified and there never
has been any doubt in my own mind that I was equally correct in the
conjecture as to the participation, or at least the silent approval, of
Tewfik, but this could not be proved.
Knowing the mystery-loving nature of the Egyptians and feeling sure
that if left wholly to their own ways they would entertain themselves
with a long correspondence which could do no good and might
arouse suspicion, I determined to bring matters to a head as quickly
as possible. It was evident that those who sought my services knew
much about me and it was quite as important to me that I should
know them. The next evening, before going down to dinner, I wrote
my answer. “Yes,” I replied to the encouraging query, “provided it is
something a gentleman can do, and I am well paid for it. But I will
conduct no negotiations in this way. I must see the people I am
doing business with.”
After dinner I retired to the same out-of-the-way corner of the
garden in which I had been found the night before, on the side
farthest away from the hotel and the music, to await developments.
It probably was not long, but it seemed hours, before the same
three women came up the short flight of steps running down to the
street. The one who was doing duty as a letter carrier, and who bore
the imaginative name of Ialla, was the last to appear. On reaching
the level of the garden her eyes roamed quickly around until they
turned toward where I was sitting. Seeing me, she drew her veil
across her face, as though she resented being classed with the
unregenerate fellahin, and wished to show more discrimination in
her love affairs than they could boast, and accompanied her
companions in their ostensible bargaining tour among the guests. To
one who paid them even casual attention they must have appeared
as timid traders, so lacking were they in the customary insistence,
and it was with small profits and no great loss of time that they
found their way around to me. As on the night before, it was left to
Ialla to barter with me. I again took both of her hands in mine, to
examine her jewelry, of which she wore a wealth that, like her looks,
belied her dress, and as I did so I slipped into one of them the
tightly folded note which I had been gripping for an hour or more.
Her jewels were much richer than those she had worn the previous
evening and as I studied their barbaric beauty I softly pressed her
childish hands, as the only means of conveying something of the
impression she had made on me, for I did not know the extent to
which the other women were in our secret or could be trusted. Her
only response was one quick glance, which I interpreted as a
mixture of pleasure, surprise, and interrogation; the one distinctly
pleasant thing about it was that it contained nothing of indignation
or hostility. Save for that electric flash her wonderful eyes looked
modestly downward and her whole attitude was one of perfect
propriety, which more than ever convinced me that she was not
what she pretended to be. Finally she drew her hands away,
hurriedly but gently, and with an impatient gesture, as though she
had made up her mind that I had no idea of making a purchase, led
her companions out of the garden.
There was no sign of either Ialla or her two friends the next evening,
though I watched for them closely. On the second afternoon I
received a call from my old friend, who undoubtedly had
recommended me and vouched for me to the people who had
opened up the exceedingly interesting correspondence. It was
apparently a casual visit but its purpose was revealed when, in the
course of a general conversation regarding the country and its ways,
along which he had cleverly piloted me, he said: “These Egyptians
are a remarkable people. I have lived among them long enough to
know them and to admire, particularly, their sublime religious faith
and their exalted sense of honor. With their enemies, and with the
travellers on whom they prey, they are tricky and evasive to the last
degree, but in their dealings with people whom they know and trust
they are the most honorable men in the world. I don’t know whether
you expect to have any dealings with them, but if you do, you can
trust them absolutely.”
With that opening I was on the point of speaking to him about the
note I had received and answered, but before I could say a word he
had started off on another subject, leaving me to understand that he
knew all about the matter but did not wish to talk of it, and that he
had taken that method, learned from the diplomats, of endorsing the
people with whom he had put me in communication. We gossiped
on for some time, but though each knew what was uppermost in the
other’s mind neither of us spoke of it, nor was the subject even
indirectly referred to again.
This conversation indicated that the veiled proceedings were nearing
the point of a personal interview with some one who knew
something about the scheme, and when I took my seat in the
garden that evening I was impatient for further unfoldings. Not
knowing what might happen, and despite the afternoon’s guarantee
of good faith from a man I had every reason to trust, I took the
precaution to arm myself with two Tranter revolvers. I had not been
waiting long when Ialla and her two companions appeared and came
straight toward me, but without any sign of recognition. As she
passed close beside me, walking slowly, Ialla whispered, almost in
my ear: “Follow me at ten o’clock.”
It was then about nine-thirty. The inharmonious trio moved on into
the throng of guests and, as the time passed, gradually worked their
way around toward the stairway leading down to the street. A few
minutes before ten I descended into the street to wait for them, so it
could not be seen from the hotel that I was following them.
Promptly on the hour Ialla and her attendants came down the steps
and set off toward Old Cairo, which, however much it may have
been spoiled since, was then just the same as when Haroun-al-
Raschid used to take his midnight rambles. At the corner of the hotel
two men dressed as servants stepped out of a shadow and fell in
close behind them, apparently to prevent me from engaging them in
conversation, which, but for this barrier, I assuredly would have
done. With all amorous advances thus discouraged I remained far
enough behind so that it would not appear that I was one of the
party. They led me almost the full length of the Mooshka, the main
street of the old town and the only one wide enough to permit the
passing of two carriages; turned into one of the narrow side streets,
then into another and another until they stopped at last in front of a
door at the side of one of the little shops. When I was within
perhaps fifty feet of them Ialla entered the door, after looking back
at me, while her four companions walked rapidly on down the street.
I pushed open the door, which was immediately closed by a servant
who dropped a bar across it, and found Ialla waiting for me in a
dimly lighted hallway. She led me nearly to the end of the long hall,
opened a door and motioned to me to enter and closed the door
from the outside. I found myself in a large room, which, after my
eyes had become accustomed to the half light, I saw was
magnificently furnished. A fine-looking old Arab, with gray hair and
beard, was seated on an ottoman, smoking a bubble pipe. His
bearing was majestic and for the purpose of easy identification he
will be known here as Regal, though that was not his name.
“I am glad to see you, Pasha Boynton,” was his greeting, in a deep,
strong voice. He proved himself a man of action, and advanced
himself greatly in my esteem by giving no time to idle chatter. “We
know you well,” he said, “through trustworthy information, as a
soldier and a sailor, and we believe you are peculiarly well equipped
for the work we wish you to undertake. It is a sea-going expedition,
involving danger of disaster on one hand and the cause of liberty
and a substantial reward on the other. Are you willing to attempt it?”
“If you are open to reasonable terms and I am given full command
of the expedition, I will gladly undertake it,” I replied. “If it furnishes
real adventure I will be quite willing to accept that in part payment
for my services.”
“Then we should be able to agree without difficulty,” he answered
with a grim smile. “But,” he added, as his keen face took on a stern
expression and his eyes looked through mine into my brain,
“whether or not we do reach an agreement, we can rely on you to
keep our secret and to drop no hint or word through which it might
be revealed?”
“Absolutely,” I replied, and my gaze was as steady as his. He studied
me intently for a full minute and then said decisively, in the Arabic
fashion: “It is good.”
Without further ceremony he let me into the whole plot. At the
bottom of it was the old cry of “Egypt for the Egyptians,” which is
not yet dead and probably will not die for centuries, if ever. It was
Arabi Pasha who made the last desperate fight under this slogan and
it was his release from exile that was sought by the plotters, in order
that he might renew the war for native liberty. As a military genius
Arabi ranked almost with the great Ibrahim Pasha, who died a few
years after Arabi was born, and he was fanatical in his love of
country. From a Colonel in the army he became Under Secretary of
War and then Minister of War, in which position he was practically
the Dictator of Egypt. With the aid of a secret society which he
organized among the native officers of the army, and the carefully
concealed support of the Sultan, who had protested vainly against
the assumption of authority by the British and French over this part
of Turkish territory, he planned and executed a revolt through which
it was hoped to restore native control of Egypt. The French, more
sentimental than selfish, and reluctant to take extreme measures,
withdrew at the last moment, leaving it to the British to prosecute
the war, which they did with characteristic vigor. The bombardment
of Alexandria, on July 11 and 12, 1882, and the rout of his army at
Tel-el-Kebir two months later, dissipated Arabi’s dream and, so far as
surface indications were concerned, established British rule in Egypt,
exclusively and permanently. The movement which Arabi had
fostered apparently collapsed with that battle, and he was exiled to
Ceylon for life.
Briefly and bitterly this bit of history was reviewed by the old Arab.
Then he became more animated. He said the loyal Egyptians had
been planning a new movement against the British, with great
secrecy, for a long time, and that the natives and a large part of the
army were ready to rise in revolt whenever the signal was given.
The butchery of the gallant “Chinese” Gordon at Khartoum—a stain
on England’s fame which never can be blotted out—had checked the
British advance in the Soudan and to some extent paralyzed the
officials who, from the safe haven of the War Office in London, were
drawing up plans of conquest, and the conspirators believed the
time had come for what they were confident would prove a
successful and final blow for freedom. But, to make this ardently
desired result more certain, they needed the inspiring leadership of
Arabi Pasha, in whose talent for conflict they still had great faith,
which doubtless was intensified by his enforced absence.
Furthermore, Regal explained, the superstitious natives would hail
his unexpected return from exile as a sign that they could not be
defeated and would fight more desperately and determinedly than
before. Through spies it had been learned that Arabi was confined at
a point near the coast, only a short distance from Colombo, the
capital of Ceylon. He was allowed considerable freedom, within
certain prescribed limits, and was in the custody of only a small
guard. His escape was regarded as impossible and the idea that an
attempt might be made to rescue him seemingly had not entered
the minds of those responsible for his safe-keeping.
Yet that was precisely what I was asked to accomplish. After Regal
had stated the conditions of Arabi’s captivity he dramatically
declared, with flashing eyes: “The fires which the British foolishly
thought they had stamped out, were not, and could never be,
extinguished. They have been smouldering ever since and are now
ready to burst into a flame that will consume everything before it.
We need only the presence of the great Arabi. You can bring him to
us. With a ship, whose true mission is concealed by methods of
which we know you to be a master, you can sail to a point close to
his place of confinement. As soon as it is dark and quiet forty or fifty
of our brave men, who will accompany you, will be landed. They will
steal upon his guards and silence them and return with the General
to your ship. There will be none left to give the alarm and by the
time it is discovered that he has been snatched away from their
cursed hands you will be far out of sight, and with your knowledge
of the ways of those who sail the sea it should not be difficult for
you to avoid capture. You will land Arabi at some point to be decided
on, from which he can make his way to Cairo. With his coming our
banners will be unfurled and Egypt will be restored to the Egyptians.
It is a mission in the cause of freedom and humanity. Are you willing
to undertake it?”
Long before he reached it, I saw his objective point, and ran the
whole scheme over in my mind while he was laying down its
principles. It did not strike me as being at all foolhardy. As I have
said before, it is the so-called impossibilities which, when they are
not really impossible, as few of them are, can be most easily
accomplished, for the reason that they are not guarded against.
Under the conditions described, the rescue of Arabi would be
comparatively a simple matter. The chief danger would come from
the British warships which would swarm the seas as soon as his
disappearance was discovered, for it would be a natural conclusion
that he was on some vessel on his way back to Egypt. This danger
appealed to me, for it augured well for adventure. It would be a
game of hide-and-seek, such as I intensely enjoyed, with my wits
pitted against those of the British Navy, and with my varied
experiences in deep-sea deception, I did not consider that the odds
against me would be overwhelming. Therefore I promptly assured
the old patriot, whose anxiety and excitement were shown in his
blazing eyes, that I would cheerfully assume responsibility for Arabi’s
rescue and his safe delivery at almost any point that might be
designated.
“It is good,” he replied, slowly and impressively. “Egypt will be free.”
Profoundly wishing that the noble little “Leckwith” was at my service
instead of at the bottom of the sea, I added that I had no ship and it
would be necessary to purchase one, as it would be impracticable to
charter a vessel for such a purpose. This meant that the expedition
would require some financing, in addition to the charge for my
services. With a gesture which indicated that everything was settled
in his mind and that it was only necessary for me to name my terms
to have them agreed to, Regal said he anticipated no difficulty on
that point and suggested that I return the next afternoon or evening
to meet his associates, who comprised the inner circle of the
revolutionary party. I told him I would be glad to come at any hour
but I doubted that I could find my way through the labyrinth of
narrow streets.
“How has the person who guided you here conducted herself?” he
asked.
“Irreproachably.”
“She will signal you to-morrow afternoon or evening. Follow her.”
With that he arose, terminating the interview; we solemnly shook
hands and he escorted me to the door. I was wondering how I
should find the way back to my hotel when I descried Ialla and her
four shadows waiting for me a short distance down the street.
Without a word they showed me the course until I made out the
hotel, when they disappeared down a side street.
I was lounging in the garden early the next afternoon, for there was
no telling when the summons might come and I would take no
chance of missing it. It was about four o’clock, at which hour all
Cairo was on parade and the crowd was thickest around the hotel,
that Ialla and her faithful female guards entered the lively scene. Her
face was almost entirely hidden by her veil but there was no
mistaking her eyes. They caught mine and a quick little beckoning
motion, which no one else would have noticed, told me to follow her.
She soon left, walking slowly, and I took up the trail, restraining
myself with an effort from approaching her more closely than
wisdom dictated. Avoiding the crowded Mooshka they led me, by a
more circuitous route, back to the house where I had been so
agreeably entertained the night before, and which was entered in
the same way. Regal was waiting for me and with him were five of
his countrymen, to whom I was introduced en bloc. They were
dignified and reserved but sharp-eyed and vigorous and they looked
like fighters of the first water. They were much younger than Regal
and evidently, from the deference shown him, he was the chief
conspirator.
“These,” he said, with a courtly wave of his hand toward the others,
“are the relatives and companions-in-arms of Arabi Pasha and the
men who, with me, are directing our operations. They are perfectly
responsible, as you will see, and in every way entitled to your
confidence, as you are worthy of theirs.”
With this formal assurance we sat down to a detailed discussion of
the project. They told me of their plans, as Regal had previously
explained them in a general way, and professed confidence that with
Arabi in personal command of their forces, and with the active
coöperation of the Soudanese, which was assured, they would drive
the hated British out of Egypt, and keep them out. Their knowledge
of the surroundings at Arabi’s place of confinement and their plan for
overpowering his guards and securing his release, which was
complete to the slaughter of the last man, showed an intimate
acquaintance with conditions that surprised me. From all they told
me on this point I gained the idea that they were working in
harmony with their brother Mohammedans in India, and that the
latter were planning a similar uprising when the conditions were
judged to be opportune. Developments since then have
strengthened this belief into a conviction. It is never wise to predict,
but when England some day becomes involved in a war with a first-
class power, like Germany for instance, which will tax her fighting
forces to the limit, there need be no surprise if the natives of Egypt
and India rise simultaneously and become their own masters.
It was urged by them and agreed that I should take no part in the
actual rescue of Arabi but remain on the ship, to guard against any
surprise by water and to be ready to steam westward as soon as the
party returned. I was to stand in close to the shore just after dark,
with all lights doused, and it was thought that Arabi would be safe
on board long enough before sunrise so that we could be well clear
of the land by daylight. The point at which Arabi was to be landed
caused considerable discussion. As the British were certain to
promptly patrol the Red Sea, with all of the warships that could be
hurried into it, and closely guard the Strait of Bab-el-Mandeb, it was
tentatively decided that the safest and wisest course would be to put
him ashore near Jibuti, on friendly French soil, from which point he
could pick a pathway through Abyssinia and down the Nile, with little
danger of detection and with the advantage of being able to arouse
the enthusiasm of the Soudanese and other tribes through which he
passed. I was in favor of running the gantlet of the Strait and
landing him two or three hundred miles south of the Gulf of Suez,
which would expedite the revolt and also make things more exciting,
but the others feared this would expose him too much to the danger
of recapture. They were for the surest way and said that more
reckless methods could wait until he was at the head of his troops.
This conclusion as to the landing place, however, was not final. It
was understood that I would receive definite instructions when I put
in at Saukin, on the way out, to take on the fifty proud and trusted
warriors who were to effect the release of their revered leader.
The fact that consideration of terms was the last question brought
up was a delicate compliment to my supposed fairness which I
appreciated. Instead of asking them for fifty thousand pounds, as I
had intended to, I stipulated only forty thousand, one-half of which
was to be advanced to me for the purchase of a suitable ship. The
ship was, of course, to be turned over to them at the conclusion of
the expedition. I was to pay all expenses and collect the remaining
twenty thousand pounds after Arabi had been landed. If they had
fixed the terms themselves they could not have agreed to them
more readily, and I was asked to return at ten o’clock the next
evening for the initial payment.
Our negotiations thus rapidly concluded, I was invited to remain to
dinner, which is the crowning honor of Egyptian confidence and
hospitality. I needed no urging and never have I enjoyed a meal
more. The table-talk was general, but running all through it was the
love of freedom and the plan through which they hoped to realize
their passion. Their interest in American affairs was only that called
for by courtesy, but they made me tell many stories of our wars with
England, from which they derived much satisfaction.
“We are as much entitled to our freedom as you are,” declared one
of my hosts, whose green turban indicated that he could trace his
ancestry back to Mahomet, “and we will win ours in the end, just as
your people won theirs. We may be a strange people,” he added,
reflectively, “but we are not so bad as we have been painted. The
howadji [strangers] condemn our religion without understanding it
and preach to us another, which, so far as we can observe from its
practices, falls far short of our own. Mohammedanism needs no
defence from me, but I will tell you just one thing about it. If you
were now to murder my brother I could not lay hands on you or
harm you, for you have eaten of my salt, but not even Mahomet
could make me cease to hate you in my heart. Does the Christian
religion, of which the British are so proud, teach you that?”
I confessed that it didn’t, so far as I had information or belief, and
made my sincere salaams to his faith. If I am ever to become
afflicted with any religious beliefs, I hope they will be those taught
by Mahomet.
When I finally started back to my hotel Ialla and her attendants
were waiting for me in the alley, for it was not wide enough to be
called a street. They started on ahead, but we had gone only a few
short blocks when her four companions walked briskly away and she
waited for me, in a shadow so deep that I at first thought she had
entered one of the queer houses and my spirits fell, to be revivified
a moment later when I almost ran into her.
“How did your business turn out?” she inquired anxiously, as I
bowed low before her. Her voice, which I had been longing to hear,
was soft and clear, as well became her, and her radiant beauty shone
forth through the darkness.
“Thanks to your cleverness,” I replied, “it has turned out well.”
“Then you are going to rescue my uncle,” she exclaimed delightedly.
Her sparkling eyes flamed with excitement and, as if to seal the
compact, she extended her hand, which I first pressed and then
kissed. Then I slipped it through my arm and started to walk out of
the shadow into the moonlight, and she accompanied me without
protest.
She had exchanged her cotton robe for one of silk, which was much
more fitting, and as I looked down on her I thought her the most
beautiful woman I had ever seen. If I had held the same opinion as
to others of her sex I was not reminded of it then, and there was no
manner of doubt that I was deeply in love with her. We walked long
and talked much, and some of it was interesting. She told me,
though it did not need the telling, that she was a lady and that she
had risked her reputation and exposed herself to coarsest insult by
appearing in public unveiled and dressed as a servant, out of love for
her uncle and devotion to his cause. To prevent suspicion it had
been determined that communication should be opened with me
through a woman, and she had volunteered for the service. She said
she had seen me at the Khedive’s reception, which she had
witnessed through the fretwork from the apartments of the Khedivah
—from which it appeared that I had been under consideration by the
revolutionary leaders for several weeks before I was approached—
and so she knew the man to whom the introductory note was to be
delivered. The two women servants, who could not be trusted with
such confidential correspondence, accompanied her for the double
purpose of protecting her as much as possible and carrying out the
peddling pretence. This explained why she had kept in the
background and covered her face with her scraggly veil most of the
time. On her first visit, she said, she had fully exposed her face so
that I might see she was not of the class of her companions and be
the more willing to hold commercial converse with her; in her heart
she knew her beauty would attract me, wherein she displayed an
abundantly justifiable confidence in her charms, but she expressed it
without the words or style of vanity. Except for that brief period
when she was altogether unveiled she said she really did not have
great fear of being discovered, for it was unlikely that any of her
friends would be around the hotel at the hours when she went
there, and, even if they did see her, it was improbable that they
would recognize her in fellahin attire. As a matter of fact, she
confessed, as we became better acquainted, she had entered into
the plot not only through love for her distinguished uncle, to whom
she was devoted, but from a liking for doing things that were out of
the ordinary.
It was this same spirit which induced her, on the night of my first
opportunity to tell her of her beauty and my fervid love for her, to
bribe her servants to disappear for a time. By the light of the
Egyptian moon, which would inspire even a lout of a lover, I told her,
in words that burned, of the passion she had implanted within me by
the first glance of her wonderful eyes, and I was encouraged by the
fact that she seemed more sympathetic than otherwise. We walked
for hours through deserted streets that were far from lonely until at
last we came to a corner near the hotel where her attendants were
waiting for her, patiently, I presumed, from their natures, but
whether patiently or not was of no concern to me.
The next night I found my way alone to Regal’s abode and received
the first payment of twenty thousand pounds, in Paris exchange.
There was a final conference, at which all of the details were gone
over again as a precaution against any misunderstanding, and I took
my departure with many good wishes. Ialla and her two women
attendants were waiting for me, as had been arranged, and my love-
making was resumed where I had left off on the preceding night.
Ialla was more responsive than before, but when I urged her to go
with me to France or marry me at once in Cairo she would not listen.
Finally she said: “After you have rescued my uncle I will go with you
anywhere, but not until then will I think of marriage.”
Nothing could move her from that decision. I arranged to meet her
the next night and the one following, and several others, which she
accomplished by the popular method of bribing her attendants, but,
though it was a joy to her to be told of my love there was no way by
which she could be induced to yield to it until her uncle was free.
Finally she regretfully insisted that I must leave, for her relatives,
she said, were becoming seriously disturbed over the fact that I had
remained so long in Cairo, instead of going about the important
business at hand. In my infatuation I had forgotten discretion and
my promise to conduct the expedition with all possible speed. Even
when this was brought home to me it required all of my will power
to say au revoir to the beauteous Ialla, though I expected to see her
soon again and hold her to her promise.
I went to Marseilles and called on a huissier d’marine, or ship broker,
named Oliviera, to whom I had been recommended. After looking
over several ships that were for sale I bought “L’Hirondelle” (The
Swallow), a coasting steamer of eight hundred tons that had been
running between Marseilles and Citta Vecchia, the port of Rome. She
was old but in good condition and could do seventeen knots or
better. I took command of the ship and my first and second officers
were Leigh and Wilson, who came down from London in response to
a telegram, bringing with them half a dozen men whom I knew
could be trusted. The crew was filled out with Frenchmen and we
headed for Suakin, far down on the Egyptian side of the Red Sea.
There I was to receive final instructions and pick up the Arabs who
were to do the manual labor, and whatever assassination was
necessary, in connection with Arabi’s restoration to his countrymen.
As soon as we were in the Red Sea I stripped off the ship’s French
name, rechristened her the “Adventure,” hoisted the British flag over
her, and gave her a forged set of papers in keeping with her name
and nationality.
At Suakin one of the great surprises of my life awaited me. We had
scarcely tied up when the man from whom I was to receive the
warriors came aboard with a letter from Regal directing me to turn
the ship over to him and discharge the crew. The agent could not
understand the change of plan any more than I could, and I could
not even guess as to the cause, but he was there to obey orders and
there was nothing else for me to do. I could not make any kind of a
formal protest without revealing something concerning my mission,
which I would not do, and, besides that, the ship did not belong to
me. Feeling sure there would be a satisfactory explanation waiting
for me at Cairo I returned there, after paying off the crew and
sending them back to Marseilles and London in charge of Leigh and
Wilson.
I was still more mystified when, on reaching Cairo, I was unable to
find Regal, Ialla, or any one else connected with the undertaking,
nor could I get the slightest trace of them. I located the house in
which I had been so charmingly admitted into the conspiracy, but
the people living there were strangers, so far as I was permitted to
observe or could ascertain, and they insisted they knew nothing at
all concerning the previous occupants. If I could have searched the
house I might have found out differently, but that was out of the
question. Here was Egyptian mystery beyond what I had bargained
for. It was as though I had been roughly awakened from a
delightfully realistic dream. The only theory on which I could explain
the puzzle was that the government had in some way learned of the
plot, in consequence of which every one identified with it had
disappeared, leaving it to me to take the hint and do likewise. In the
hope of seeing Ialla again and determined to secure some definite
clue as to just what had happened in my absence, I waited around
for two weeks or more, until I encountered the old friend who, I
knew, was responsible for my connection with the conspiracy. I did
not dissemble, as I had before, but took him to my room, told him
the riddle, and asked him the answer. I did not expect him to admit
anything and was not disappointed. What he said, in substance, was
this: “Of course I know nothing about the plot of which you have
told me. If what you say is true I should say that you have been
making something of a fool of yourself over this Ialla and that you
have only yourself to blame for the abrupt ending which seems to
have been reached. You are very shrewd and far-sighted and I will
admit that ordinarily you are not much moved by sentiment, but this
black-eyed beauty seems to have carried you off your feet. These
women are the greatest flirts in the world. There is nothing they
enjoy so much as clandestine meetings at which they can listen to
passionate protestations of love, and when these come from a
foreigner their cup of happiness is full. You thought Ialla was in love
with you, but she was only having a good time with you, and she
has taken a lot of pride in telling her friends about your meetings at
their afternoon gatherings in the old cemetery for the exchange of
gossip. She had no idea of marrying you, an unbeliever, you may be
sure of that. It may be that she thought she was stimulating you to
deeds of heroism in the rescue of her uncle, but, if she considered
that at all, it was a secondary matter. The men you were dealing
with have the contempt of their race for all women. They cannot
understand how any man can become so enamoured of a woman,
no matter how beautiful, as to let it interfere with his business.
When a man who, for the time being, has the leading role in a
prospective revolution, so far forgets himself as to waste a week of
valuable time in running after a flirtatious female they are quite likely
to conclude that he is too foolish and reckless to be trusted with
such an important matter. They would argue that no man who could
be relied on to carry out their plan would display such lack of
judgment. It is possible that there may be some other reason for the
situation in which you find yourself, but I doubt it. The wisest course
for you is to tell me how you can be reached, and leave Cairo, for
you can gain nothing by staying here. It is known to many persons
that I know you and if any one should want to get in communication
with you, I will be able to tell him how to do it.”
Possessing all the pride of a full-blooded man, I resented the calm
assertion that I had been ensnared by a flirt, and a somewhat
acrimonious argument followed, but, in looking back at it now, I am
willing to admit that probably my friend was right about it. Perhaps
Ialla was not, after all, the perfect woman that, under the magic
spell of her marvellous beauty, I imagined her to be, and possibly if I
had not surrendered so suddenly to her charms Arabi Pasha might
have been freed and Egypt might now be an Empire. Whether or not
that is true, I have no regrets on the subject, except that I never
saw Ialla again. My moonlight meetings with her were, at least, a
diversion, and they gave me great enjoyment while they lasted.
Though it went against the grain I was compelled to admit that my
friend’s advice was the best I could get, and I reluctantly followed it.
Feeling that for once my destiny had played it a bit low down on me
I crossed the Mediterranean and took a French liner for New York. I
had spent four months and much money in studying the Sphinx, but
I did not count them as lost. Ialla’s loveliness was in my mind for a
long time and while it remained I cherished the hope that I would be
recalled to carry out the plan for the rescue of her uncle, but the
summons never came. Eleven years later Arabi was pardoned and
returned to Egypt, but his influence among his own people was
gone; the fact that he had accepted a pardon implied, to their astute
minds, a secret agreement with their enemies and caused him to be
regarded as a tool of the British. But, as very recent events have
demonstrated, the fires of freedom are still burning, and now and
again signal smoke is seen rising over India.
 CHAPTER XIV
RAPID-FIRE REVOLTS

THE friendliness of Fate, in throwing me in the way of adventures

which were beyond my discernment, was never more plainly
evidenced than on my return to New York from Australia and Egypt
in 1890. On the trip across the Atlantic my mind had wandered away
from the West Indies and I experienced an increasing desire to
return to South America, but one of the first things I heard on my
arrival was that my old friend Guzman Blanco had finally been shorn
of his supreme power in Venezuela only a few months before. He
had been betrayed by his friends, after the established fashion of
that captivating country, and Dr. Anduesa Palacio, one of his enemies
of years, had been made President with the approval and assistance
of Dr. Rojas Paul, the dummy whom Guzman had left as titular head
of the government while he was revelling in Paris, his foreign capital.
This discouraged me for a time in my half-formed plan to return to
my Southern stamping ground, and as I had plenty of money and
was not averse to a rest, I concluded to wait around, Micawber like,
for something to turn up. But it was not long until a silent voice
began calling me to South America; softly, at first, and then so
loudly that it came as a command. I had heard the same sort of an
order before, and only very recently, and was not disposed to
disregard it. I felt sure it would not lead me into disappointment
twice in succession.
Without knowing where or how the cruise would end, but confident
it would lead to trouble—though I did not imagine how much of it
there really would be or how unpleasant it would prove—I bought
the “Alice Ada,” a brigantine of three hundred tons, laid her on with
Thos. Norton & Sons, and got a general cargo for Rosario, Brazil, on
the River Parava. From Rosario I went one hundred miles up the
river to St. Stephens and took on a cargo of wheat for Rio Janiero.
As soon as I had looked around a little in Rio, while the cargo was
being unloaded, I understood why I had gone there, for my
expectant eye distinguished signs of a nice little revolution which
was just being shaped up. These indications, though somewhat
vague to even an experienced new arrival, were so encouraging in
their promise of exciting events that I sold my ship and took
quarters at the Hotel Freitas to watch developments. I had not long
to wait before the young republic celebrated its first revolution, but it
was accomplished in such a disgracefully quiet way, and in such
marked contrast with that sort of proceeding in Venezuela, and in
Central America and the West Indies, that I was thoroughly
disgusted with the country and was tempted to move on again into
new fields. A land in which the government is changed by the force
of public sentiment alone, and without the booming of cannon and
the bursting of bombs, has no charm for me.
When the last Emperor of Brazil, Dom Pedro II, was dragged out of
bed at night and deported without the firing of a shot, in the
“Peaceful Revolution” of November 15, 1889, Deodoro da Fonseca
was made President by the lovers of liberty and equality, which
purely imaginary conditions of life never will be found in any country.
Before his weakness had become apparent he was made
Constitutional President and Floriano Peixotto was elected Vice-
President. Deodoro had neither the firmness nor the initiative that
the situation demanded. His policy was weak and vacillating and his
popularity waned rapidly. The revolution which was in the process of
formation when I arrived on the scene was, I discovered, being
quietly fomented by Floriano, the Vice-President. He soon had the
army at his back and, as the people were beginning to clamor for
him, it was an easy matter to gain the support of Admiral Mello, the
ranking officer of the Brazilian Navy, and Admiral Soldanha da Gama,
commandant of the naval academy. They brought matters to a head
on the morning of November 23, 1891. Mello took up a position at
the foot of the main street of Rio in the cruiser “Riachuelo,” the
finest ship in the navy, trained his guns on the palace of Itumary,
and sent word to Deodoro that he would open fire on him in two
hours if he did not abdicate in favor of Floriano. Deodoro abdicated
in two minutes, and dropped dead soon afterward from heart
disease, and Floriano was proclaimed President.
Before he had time to get his new chair well warmed he had a row
with Mello, and as soon as I heard of it I foresaw another revolution,
which pleasing prospect prompted me to remain in Brazil, for I did
not believe it could possibly prove as uninteresting as those that had
preceded it. Mello regarded himself as the President-maker and
considered that he was rightfully entitled to be the power behind the
throne. However, Floriano was not at all constituted for the role of a
mere figurehead and he made it plain to Mello that while he might
make courteous suggestions and even give friendly advice, he could
not go an inch beyond that. Floriano was really a remarkable man.
He was perhaps one-half Indian and the rest corrupted Portuguese;
sixty years old, with clear, brown eyes and iron gray hair and
whiskers. A strong, fine character he was; perfectly fearless,
absolutely honest and devoted to his country, whose interests he
greatly advanced. He was proud of his Indian blood, which he made
a synonyme for courage and fairness, and often referred to it. He
was the best President I have ever known, not excepting even the
great Guzman.
Mello was a younger man and more of a Spaniard in his blood and
his characteristics. He had considerable bravery, of the kind that is
best displayed in the presence of a large audience, but he was
impetuous and at times foolish. He was abnormally ambitious and
believed in a rule or ruin policy. At that, he was more a man after my
own heart, for he stood for revolt and anarchy, while Floriano stood
for law and order. Soldanha da Gama, the third figure in the drama,
was a strange mixture of naval ability, cowardice, and theatrical
bravery.
When Floriano refused to be dictated to or even influenced in his
views as to what was best for Brazil, Mello proceeded to plot against
him with even more earnestness than he had displayed in the plans
to overthrow Deodoro. He worked chiefly among the naval officers,
the aristocrats, the adherents of Dom Pedro, and the Catholic clergy,
and in the end they all became his allies. He was unable to shake
the army, though he tried repeatedly to create dissatisfaction among
the troops, and the influence of the priests was minimized by the
fact that the people generally were blindly in love with the new
scheme of self-government, which sounded well and appealed
strongly to their sentimental natures, and were loyal to Floriano.
As Mello’s plot shaped up I began to suspect that his real purpose
was to restore Dom Pedro to the throne and make himself the power
behind it. Mello cared nothing for titles; it was his ambition to be the
dictator of Brazil, with power as absolute as that which Guzman
Blanco had exercised for many years in Venezuela. It was natural for
him to suppose that if he reëstablished the Empire under its old
ruler, Dom Pedro would be so grateful to him, and to him alone, that
he would be thoroughly subservient to his influence. Later events
confirmed me not only in the belief that this was what was in Mello’s
mind, but that he had an understanding with Dom Pedro and,
through him, with several European rulers, who were keenly anxious
to see the “divine right of kings” perpetuated in South America.
Mello considered that the dictator to an Emperor would have more
power than the dictator to a President, and he may have even
dreamed that he would some day take the throne himself and
establish a new dynasty. Dom Pedro had issued a protest against his
deposition as soon as he reached Europe, in which all the princes of
Coburg joined, and was conducting an active campaign for his
restoration. It is interesting to note, in passing, that there is still a
pretender to the throne of Brazil. When Dom Pedro died he left his
lost crown to Donna Isabella, wife of Count D’Eu, a Bourbon prince.
She passed it over to her eldest son, Peter, when he became of age,
and only recently he transferred all of his shadowy rights and
prerogatives to his younger brother, Louis, who now considers
himself the rightful ruler of Brazil. The Old World has a way of
keeping up pretenderships that is almost as ridiculous as some of
the revolutions of the New World.
It was amusing to watch the development of Mello’s rebellion, which
continued through all of 1892 and the greater part of the following
year. One would have thought that two friendly leaders were
planning rival surprise parties, in which there was to be nothing
more serious than the throwing of confetti. Floriano, surrounded by
spies and assassins but also by many loyal and devoted friends,
knew perfectly well, from his own spies, what Mello was doing, but,
relying on his own strength and the public sentiment behind him, he
made no move to check him. On the other hand, Mello was well
aware that Floriano knew all that was going on, yet neither one gave
any outward sign of this knowledge, and when they were together
they appeared to be friends.
It was along in July or August, 1893, that I was delightedly dragged
into the mysterious muss, after a period of waiting that was long,
anxious, and expensive. Mello sent for me first and expressed a wish
that I go down to Santa Catharina Island, off the southern coast of
Brazil, and blow up the “Republica,” the one Brazilian warship whose
officers had remained loyal to Floriano, though finally, just before the
revolution was declared, they went over to Mello. With the exception
of Soldanha da Gama, who was neutral but whom he regarded as
more of a friend than an enemy, Mello had converted the rest of the
navy to his cause, but the “Republica” held out against him and he
wanted her put out of the way of doing him harm. He offered a cash
payment and a commission in the navy in return for her destruction,
but I could never get him down to definite terms or to a contract
that I would accept. We had several conferences, and, while we
were still negotiating, I received a call from one of Floriano’s aides,
who asked me to accompany him to the palace. He took me in the
rear entrance and up a back stairway to Floriano’s private sala
where, after presenting me, he left me, as I supposed, alone with
the President.
“I understand,” said Floriano, getting right down to business, “that
you were in Venezuela with President Guzman and that you have
had military training and experience.”