THE SACK WHICH CLANKED
The sand which had been a rich ochre turned to creamy white, the sea
from blue became a livid green, the grass upon the sand-hills
blackened and bowed down beneath a sudden gust of wind. The change was
instantaneous, as it seemed to me. I had observed that clouds were
gathering upon the mountain peaks inland, but I had been riding in hot
sunlight, only a little less intense than it had been at noon, when
suddenly the chill and shadow struck me. Then I saw the sky completely
overcast with a huge purple cloud which bellied down upon the land and
sea. The waves which had been lisping all day long gave forth an
ominous dull roar. White horses reared and plunged. A wind sang
through the grass and thistles of the dunes, driving the sand into my
face.
Rashîd, who had been riding far behind, in conversation with our
muleteer, came tearing up, and I could hear the shouts of the mukâri
urging his two beasts to hurry.
'There is a village on the headland over there--a village of
Circassian settlers,' cried my servant, breathless. 'It has a bad
name, and I had not thought to spend the night there. But any roof is
good in such a storm. Ride fast! We may arrive before the downpour.'
My horse had broken to a canter of his own accord. I urged him to a
gallop. We flew round the bay. The village on the headland took shape
rapidly--a few cube-shaped, whitewashed houses perched amid what
seemed at first to be great rocks, but on a close approach revealed
themselves as blocks of masonry, the ruins of some city of antiquity.
From time to time a jet of spray shot up above them, white as lilies
in the gloom. The sea was rising. I discerned an ancient gateway
opening on the beach, and set my horse towards it, while the rain came
down in sheets. I saw no more until the ruins loomed up close before
me, a blind wall.
'Your right hand!' called Rashîd; and, bearing to the right, I found
the gateway. We waited underneath its vault until the muleteer, a
dripping object, shrouded in a sack, came up with his two mules; and
then we once more plunged into the deluge. The path, a very rough one,
wavered up and down and in and out among the ruins. There were,
perhaps, a dozen scattered houses without gardens or any sign of
cultivation round them. Only one of them possessed an upper storey,
and towards that, supposing it to be the guest-room, we now picked our
way. It stood alone right out upon the promontory, topped by clouds of
spray.
A little courtyard gave us partial shelter while Rashîd ran up some
rough stone steps and hammered at a door, exclaiming:
'Peace be on this house! My master craves for food and shelter, and
we, his servants, ask the same boon of thy goodness. O master of the
house, God will reward thy hospitality!'
The door was opened and a man appeared, bidding us all come in, in
Allah's name. He was of middle height and thick-set, with a heavy grey
moustache. An old-fashioned, low-crowned fez, with large blue tassel,
was bound about his brow with an embroidered turban. A blue zouave
jacket, crimson vest and baggy trousers of a darker blue completed
his apparel, for his feet were bare. In his girdle were a pair of
pistols and a scimitar.
He bade us welcome in bad Arabic, showing us into a good-sized
room--the upper chamber we had seen from far. Its windows, innocent of
glass, were closed by wooden shutters, roughly bolted, which creaked
and rattled in the gale. A very fine-looking old man rose from the
divan to greet us.
'What countryman art thou? A Turk, or one of us?' he asked, as I
removed my head-shawl. 'An Englishman, sayest thou?' He seized my
hand, and pressed it. 'An Englishman--any Englishman--is good, and his
word is sure. But the English Government is very bad. Three Englishmen
in Kars behaved like warrior-angels, fought like devils. And while
they fought for us their Government betrayed our country. What? Thou
hast heard about it? Praise to Allah! At last I meet with one who can
confirm the story. My son here thinks that I invented it.'
I happened to have read of the defence of Kars under the leadership of
three heroic Englishmen--General Williams, Captain Teesdale, and
Doctor Sandwith--and of the betrayal of the Circassian rising under
Shamyl at the time of the Crimean war.
The old man was delighted. 'Listen, O my son!' he called out to the
person who had let us in. 'It is true what I have often told to thee.
This Englishman knows all about it. So does all the world, except such
blockheads as thyself and thy companions.'
His son begged to be excused a minute while he put his crops into the
barn. Therewith he dragged a sack out of the room. What crops he may
have grown I do not know; but this I know--the contents of that sack
clanked as he dragged it out.
When he returned, he brought a bowl of eggs cooked in clarified
butter, two slabs of bread, and a great jug of water, apologising for
the coarseness of the fare. We all supped together, the old man
babbling of the days of old with great excitement. His son stared at
me with unblinking eyes. At last he said:
'I like thee, O khawâjah. I had once a son about thy age. Say, O my
father, is there not a strong resemblance?'
Thereafter he talked quite as much as the old man, giving me the
history of their emigration from the Caucasus to escape the yoke of
the accursed Muscovite, and enumerating all the troubles which
attended their first coming into Syria.
'We are not subjects of the Government,' he told me, 'but allies; and
we have special privileges. But the dishonoured dogs round here forget
old compacts, and want us to pay taxes like mere fellâhîn.'
We sat up talking far into the night, while the storm raged without,
and the rain and the sea-spray pounded on the shutters; and never have
I met with kinder treatment. It was the custom for chance comers to
have food at evening only and leave betimes next morning. But our
host, when I awoke in splendid sunlight, had breakfast ready--sour
milk and Arab bread and fragrant coffee--and when I went out to my
horse he followed me, and thrust two roasted fowls into my
saddle-bags, exclaiming 'Zâd!'--which means 'food for the road.' And
much to my abashment he and the old man fell upon my neck and kissed
me on both cheeks.
'Good people! The very best of people! They would take no money. God
reward them,' chanted Rashîd, as we rode out of the ruins inland
through a garden of wild flowers. The storm had passed completely. Not
a cloud remained.
After an hour we came in sight of a large khan outside a mud-built
village on the shore. Before it was a crowd, including several
soldiers. As we drew near, Rashîd inquired the meaning of the throng.
'A great calamity,' he was informed. 'A man, a foreigner, is dying,
killed by highwaymen. One of his companions, a poor servant, is
already dead.'
We both dismounted, and Rashîd pushed in to learn more of the matter.
Presently a soldier came to me.
'Your Honour is an Englishman?' he questioned. 'Praise be to Allah! I
am much relieved. This other also is an Englishman, they tell me. He
is severely wounded, at the gate of death.'
I went with him at once to see the sufferer, who seemed relieved to
hear me speak, but could not answer. Rashîd and I did what we could
to make him comfortable, giving the soldiers orders to keep out the
crowd. We decided to ride on and send a doctor, and then report the
matter to a British consul.
'He was going down to start some kind of business in the city over
there,' the leader of the soldiers told me, nodding towards the south.
'He had a largeish company, with several camels. But near the village
of ---- he was attacked by the Circassians, and was so foolish as to
make resistance. They took everything he had of worth--his arms, his
money--and killed a camel-driver, besides wounding him. It happened
yesterday before the storm. They say I should take vengeance for him.
What am I--a corporal with six men--to strive with Huseyn Agha and his
cavalry! It needs a regiment.'
He went grumbling off. Rashîd and I were staring hard at one another;
for the village named was that where we had spent the night, and
Huseyn Agha's roasted fowls were in our saddle-bags.
Rashîd, as I could see, was troubled upon my account. He kept silence
a good while. At last he said:
'It is like this, my lord. Each man must see with his own eyes and not
another's. People are as one finds them, good or bad. They change with
each man's vision, yet remain the same. For us those highway robbers
are good people; we must bless them; having cause to do so. This other
man is free to curse them, if he will. Good to their friends, bad to
their enemies. What creature of the sons of Adam can condemn them
quite?'