"Feet downwards, too afraid to yell!"--
Abdul Ali of Damascus was holding the floor again when we
returned. He had abandoned the cold air of mysterious authority
and secrets in reserve. His claim to backstairs influence having
been challenged, he had resorted to the emotional appeal that is
the simplest means of controlling any crowd of men anywhere. The
demagog who can find a million men all responsive to the same
emotion can swing them as easily as a hundred if he knows his
business. Loot was the tune he harped, with the old Ishmael
blood-lust by way of obbligato.
He had them by the heart-strings, and there were long-necked
bottles of liquor that smelt of aniseed being passed from hand to
hand. We returned to our places almost unnoticed, and within the
minute some one handed a full bottle to Anazeh; the accompanying
cup was big enough to hold any ordinary drunkard's breakfast, and
the old sheikh's eyes admired the size of it.
I laid my hand on the wrist that held the bottle. He shook it
off angrily, and began to pour. Grim, over the way, looked
anxious. It was up to me to play this hand, so I led my ace
of trumps.
Suddenly, and very clumsily, I rocked sideways to reach my hip-
pocket, contriving to jog his elbow and spill what was already in
the cup. He turned his head to curse savagely, and I showed him
the folded sheet from my notebook. His name was on it in Arabic:
"Sheikh Anazeh ben Mahmoud, from Jimgrim."
He seized it, setting the bottle down between his feet, where it
was instantly reached for by some one else and handed down the
line. Reading was evidently not Anazeh's favorite amusement, but
he knitted his brows over the letter and wrestled with it word by
word, while Abdul Ali's fiery declamation made the vaulted roof
resound. I could only make out snatches of the appeal to
savagery--a word and a sentence here and there.
"Who are you, princes? Men with swords, or slaves who must
obey?--Raid over the Jordan twenty thousand strong!--What are
Jews? Shall Jews take the home of your ancestors? Who says so?
--Let the Jews be buried in the land they come to steal!--You say
the Jews are cleverer than you. Cut their heads off, then they
cannot think!"
"When did Jimgrim give you this?" Anazeh demanded, folding the
letter and stowing it in his bosom.
"That is the message that I told you would come later if
you waited."
"Do you know what is in the message?"
"No." That was perfectly true. I had talked with Grim, but had
not read what he had written.
"He wishes me to go and wait for him in a certain place"
"Why not do it?"
"Rubbama." (Perhaps.)
"True-believers! Followers of the Prophet! Sons of warrior
kings!" thundered Abdul Ali. "Will you do nothing to help
Feisul, a lineal descendant of the Prophet? You have helped him
to a throne. Now strike to hold him there!"
"Jimgrim says, I may go away and leave you here," growled Anazeh.
"What say you?"
"Ala khatrak. (Please yourself.) Jimgrim is wise."
"He is the father of wisdom. Mashallah! I will consider it.
There will be a banquet presently!"
"And loot! You can help yourselves!" shouted Abdul Ali of
Damascus. Then he sat down amid a storm of applause. Suliman
ben Saoud--Jimgrim--was on his feet before the tumult died away,
and again they grew perfectly still to listen to him. If an
Arab loves anything under heaven more than his own style of
fighting, it is the action and reaction of debate. I could
not understand a word of the mid-Arabian dialect, but Abdul
Ali's retorts were plain enough; and from the way that Grim
pointed at me and Mahommed ben Hamza it was fairly easy to
follow what was happening.
He denounced me as possibly dangerous, and wondered why they
permitted me to have an interpreter, who could whisper to me
everything that was being said.
"Put out the interpreter!" sneered Abdul Ali, and there was a
chorus of approval. Mahommed ben Hamza got up and hurried for
the door while the hurrying was good and painless to himself,
though it was hardly that to other people; forcing his way
between the close-packed notables he kicked more than one of them
pretty badly and grinned when they cursed him. I saw Abdul Ali
of Damascus whisper to one of his rose-coloured parasites, who
got up at once and made his way toward the door, too.
"The fellow is from Hebron," Abdul Ali sneered in a voice loud
enough for all to hear. "It is best that he should not go back
to Hebron to tell tales! I have attended to it."
My blood ran cold. I tried to catch Grim's eye, but he would not
look in my direction. I wondered whether he had heard Abdul
Ali's threat. It seemed to me that if Mahommed ben Hamza were
either murdered or imprisoned Grim's whole chance of success was
gone. The danger would be multiplied tenfold. Anazeh seemed the
only remaining hope. The old-rose individual who followed ben
Hamza had not reached the door yet.
"How about your men?" I asked.
"They are all right." Anazeh's eyes pursued the liquor bottle.
"Why not go and see?" I suggested.
"Ilhamdul'illah, they are good men. I know them. If there is
trouble they will come and tell me."
The door opened softly. The gorgeous old-rose parasite slipped
through. I had a mental vision of Mahommed ben Hamza lying face-
downward with his new coat stained with blood. There was nothing
for it, it seemed, but the magic formula to move Anazeh.
"Jimgrim says, 'See that ben Hamza gets safely away!"'
"Dog of a Hebron tanner's son--let him die! What is that to me?"
"It is Jimgrim's command."
"Wallahi haida fasl! (By God, this is a strange affair!) Wait
here!"
Old Anazeh, with the name of the Prophet of God on his lips, cast
an envious glare at the bottle of liquor and seized action by the
forelock. There was nothing to excite comment in his getting up
to leave the room. A dozen men had done that and come in again.
He strode out, straight down the middle of the carpet. Suliman
ben Saoud--Jimgrim--went on talking, and to judge by Abdul Ali of
Damascus' increasingly restless retorts he was getting that
gentleman's goat as promised. Finally Abdul Ali got to his feet
and said that if the Ichwan would see him alone he would show him
certain documents that would satisfy him, but that it would not
be policy to produce them in public. He offered to send for the
documents, and to show them during or after the banquet.
So Jimgrim sat down, and there was a good deal of quiet nudging
and nodding. Every one seemed to understand that the Ichwan was
going to be bribed; they seemed to admire his ability to get for
himself a share of the funds that most of them had tapped.
A man nearly opposite me leaned over and said in fairly good
French, with the manner of a doctor assuring his patient that the
worst is yet to come:
"It has been decided that you are to be detained here in the castle
until there is no danger of your carrying away important news."
While I was turning that over in my mind Anazeh came back,
grinning. Something outside had tickled him immensely, but he
would not say anything. He sat down beside me and chuckled into
his beard; and when his neighbour on the right asked what had
amused him he turned the question into a bawdy joke.
"Did ben Hamza get away?" I whispered.
He only nodded. He continued chuckling until the man on duty by
the door announced to the "assembled lords and princes" that the
muezzin summoned them to prayer. All except three Christian
sheikhs trooped up the narrow stairway in Ali Shah al Khassib's
wake, Anazeh going last with a half-serious joke about not caring
to be stabbed in the back.
I expected the three non-Moslems would take advantage of the
opportunity to ask me a string of questions. But they took
exactly the opposite view of the situation. They avoided me,
withdrawing into a corner by themselves. I suppose they
thought that to be seen talking to me was more risky than the
amusement merited.
So I went up to the ramparts, too, to watch the folk at prayer,
minded to keep out of sight, for they don't like being regarded
as a curious spectacle; and on the way up I did something that
may have had a lot to do with our getting away alive, although I
did not give much thought to it and could hardly have explained
my motive at the time.
The door at the foot of the stairs opened inward. It was almost
exactly the same width as the stairway, so that when it stood
wide open you could not have put your hand between its edge and
the stairway wall. Lying on the floor of the hall within a few
feet of the nearest corner was a length of good sound olive-wood,
about three inches in thickness, roughly squared and not
particularly squared. Having stepped on it accidentally, I
picked it up, and discovered more by accident than intention that
it was longer than the width of the stairway. Then I noticed a
notch in the stairway wall. Behind the opened door there was a
deeper notch in the opposite wall. There was no lock on the
door, no bolt. That length of wood had been cut to fit
horizontally from notch to notch across the passage. Once that
beam was fitted in its place, whoever wished to reach the roof
would have to burn or batter down the door. I moved the door and
placed the length of olive-wood on end behind it.
I found the view from the ramparts much more interesting than the
soul-saving formalities of eighty or so potential cut-throats.
While they prayed I stood watching the shadows deepen in the
Jordan Valley, as no doubt Joshua once watched them from
somewhere near that same spot before he marshalled his invading
host. You could understand why people who had wandered forty
years in a stark and howling wilderness should yearn for those
coloured, fertile acres between the Jordan and the sea: why they
should be willing to fight for them, die for them, do anything
rather than turn back.
By the time we had filed down--Anazeh last again--the servants
had nearly finished spreading a banquet. What looked like bed-
sheets had been laid along the strip of carpet, and, the whole
length of them was piled with all imaginable things to eat, from
cakes and fruit to whole sheep roasted and seethed in camel's
milk and honey. There were no less than six sheep placed at
intervals along the "table," with mountains of rice, scow-loads
of apricots cooked in various ways, and a good sized flock of
chickens spitted and smeared with peppery sauce. At a guess, I
should say there were several pounds of meat, about two chickens,
and a peck of rice per man, with apricots and raisins added; but
they faced the prospect like heroes.
Perhaps what helped them face it was the sight of sundry bottles
bearing labels more familiar in the West. Abdul Ali of Damascus,
licking his lips like a cat that smells canary, took his place on
a cushion up near the window again on the right of Ali Shah al
Khassib, who was only the nominal host. Abdul Ali left no doubt
in anybody's mind as to who was paying for the feast. It was he
who gave orders to the servants in a bullying tone of voice; he
who begged every one be seated.
Anazeh looked at the bottles of brandy--looked at me--and prayed
under his breath; or, at any rate, it looked and sounded like a
prayer. He may have been swearing. He and I were not very far
from the door; the seats near the head of the table had all been
taken. I sat down at once, so as not to be conspicuous, but
Anazeh remained standing so long that at last Abdul Ali called to
him to sit down and eat his fill, using the offensively
magnanimous tone of voice that some men can achieve without an
effort. I think Anazeh had been waiting for just that opening.
"I have twenty men outside," he announced. "Shall I eat, and
not they?"
"This is a feast for notables," said Abdul Ali.
"A little bread with my own men is better than meat and drink at
a traitor's table," Anazeh answered. "Wallahi! (By God!) I go to
eat with honest men!" He laid a hand on my head. "Ye have said
this effendi must stay in the castle. Well and good. Whoever
harms him or offers him indignity shall answer to me and my men
for it!" He bowed to me like a king taking leave of his court.
"Lailtak sa'idi. Allah yifazak, effendi!" (Good night. God keep
you, effendi!) With that he stalked out, and the door slammed
shut behind him. Everybody, including Abdul Ali, laughed.
The banquet was a boresome business--an interminable competition
to see who could eat and drink the most. With my interpreter
gone, and everybody else too busy guzzling to trouble to speak
distinctly for my benefit, I had to depend on my ayes for
information and naturally used them to the utmost. I noticed
that Abdul All of Damascus, Jimgrim Suliman ben Saoud and myself
were the only men in the room, servants included, who ate and
drank within the bounds of decency and reason. One of the
servants, walking up and down the table-cloth with brandy and
relays of vegetables, was drunk very early in the game and had to
be thrown out.
Abdul Ali kept conversation going on the subject of the raid.
The more the brandy bottles circulated the easier he found it to
keep enthusiasm burning. He talked about me, too, several times,
and every time that subject cropped up all eyes turned in my
direction. I think he was making the most of the school idea,
mixing up the raid with education and serving the mixture hot, as
it were, with brandy sauce.
But over the way, about half-way down the table, the Ichwan
Suliman ben Saoud, dead-cold-sober and abstemious, as befitted a
fanatic, was talking, too. He was quite evidently talking
against Abdul Ali, so that the Damascene kept looking at him with
a troubled expression. He glanced frequently at the door, too,
as if he expected some one who could put an end to Suliman ben
Saoud's intrigue.
But it was a long time before the door opened and the second of
his old-rose parasites came in. I had not noticed until then
that the man was missing. He thrust a packet of some sort into
Abdul Ali's hands. He whispered. The Damascene's face darkened
instantly, and he swore like a pirate. Then, I suppose because
he had to vent his wrath on somebody, he shouted to me in German
all down the length of the table:
"Your cursed interpreter has nearly killed my secretary! He
struck him in the mouth and knocked all his teeth out. What
courteous servants you employ!"
"What was your secretary trying to do to him?" I retorted, but he
saw fit not to answer that. He poured some more brandy instead
for Ali Shah al Khassib.
So that was what Anazeh had been laughing at! The old humourist
had either seen the fracas, or had come on the injured old-rose
messenger of death nursing a damaged face. I began to share
Grim's good opinion of ben Hamza. But though I watched Grim's
face, and knew that he knew German, I could not detect a trace of
interest. He kept on talking against Abdul Ali until after ten
o'clock. By that time most of the notables were about as full as
they could hold. Those who were not too drunk appeared ready for
anything in or out of reason.
At that stage of the proceedings they ushered in the dancing
girls. The servants cleared away most of the food, removed the
table-cloths, and a ring was formed practically all around the
room, the notables leaning their backs against the wall to ease
overworked bellies. I set my cushion down next to a very drunken
man just by the narrow door that opened on the stairway leading
to the ramparts. He fell asleep with his head on my shoulder
within five minutes, and as that, for some subtle reason, seemed
to make me even more unnoticeable I let him snore away in peace.
Over in Abdul Ali's corner of the room there was a real council
of war going on in whispers. Opposite to him, ten paces or so
distant from me, Jimgrim Suliman ben Saoud was holding a rival
show. It seemed about an even bet which was making greater
headway. Those who were more or less drunk, and all the younger
sheikhs had eyes and ears for nothing but the dancing girls.
They were outrageous hussies. They wore more clothes than a
Broadway chorus lady, and rather less paint, but if they were
symbols of the Moslem paradise (as a learned Arab once assured me
that they are meant to be) then, as I answered the Arab on that
occasion, "me for hell." But none of those sheikhs had ever seen
Broadway, so you could hardly blame them.
Abdul Ali of Damascus seemed to have his arrangements with the
men in his corner cinched at last to his satisfaction. He walked
a little unsteadily across the room, apparently to make his peace
with Suliman ben Saoud. He held brazenly in one hand a leather
wallet that bulged with paper money--doubtless the "documents"
that he had sent for. He nodded to me as he passed with
more familiarity than he had any right to, since he had so
ostentatiously dismissed me to the dogs. I suppose he felt so
sure of "convincing" Suliman ben Saoud, and was so bent on
offsetting the reaction caused by Anazeh's behavior that he had
been reviving that project about the school and therefore chose
to appear on intimate terms with me. I met him more than
half-way; any one who cared to might believe I loved him like
a brother.
He stood in front of Suliman ben Saoud, rocking just a trifle
from the effects of alcohol and smoke, and there was about five
minutes' conversation of which, although I missed a lot of it, I
caught the general drift. The men who had come under the
Ichwan's influence kept joining in and raising objections. I
gathered that they expected a proportionate percentage of the
bribe for which Suliman ben Saoud was supposed to be maneuvering.
But even Abdul Ali, with a pouch of paper money in his hand, was
not quite so barefaced as to bribe the Ichwan publicly. At the
end of five minutes he suggested a private talk on the parapet.
Suliman ben Saoud rose with apparent reluctance. Abdul Ali of
Damascus took his arm. It was Suliman ben Saoud who opened the
narrow door, and Abdul Ali who went through first. I did not
wait for any invitation, but let my snoring neighbor fall on his
side, hurried through after them, and closed the door behind me.
Groping for the stick in the dark, I jammed it into the notches.
It fitted perfectly. It held the door immovable and barred
that stairway against all-comers. Then I followed them to
the parapet.
The moon was about full and bathing the whole roof, and all the
countryside in liquid light. There was a certain amount of mist
lower down, and you could only make out the Dead Sea through it
here and there; but up where we were, and even in the moat
eighty feet below us, it was almost like daylight without the
glare and heat. I leaned over, but could see nobody in the moat,
and there was no sign of Mahommed ben Hamza.
Abdul Ali led the way toward the corner where Grim had given his
orders to ben Hamza that afternoon. Abdul Ali did not seem to
realize that I was following. When he turned at last, with his
back to the parapet and the moonlight full in his face, he
demanded in German:
"Wass machen Sie hier?"
I was about to answer him when there came a noise like
subterranean thunder from the mouth of the stairway. They were
trying to force that door below and follow us. The first words I
used were in English, for Grim's benefit:
"I stuck a stick in the door. I should say it's good for ten or
fifteen minutes unless they use explosives."
That gave the whole game away at once.
"So!" said Abdul Ali. He thrust the wallet into his bosom. With
the other hand he pulled out a repeating pistol. "So!"
Grim said never a word. He closed with him. In a second we were
all three struggling like madmen. The pistol was not cocked; I
managed to get hold of Abdul Ali's wrist and wrench the weapon
away before he could pull back the slide. Then we all three went
down together on the stone roof, Abdul Ali yelling like a maniac,
and Grim trying to squeeze the wind out of him. Even then, as we
rolled and fought, I could still hear the thundering on the door.
No doubt the noise they made prevented them from hearing Abdul
Ali's yells for help.
The man's strength was prodigious, although he was puffy and
short-winded. It began to look as if we would have to knock him
on the head to get control of him. But even so, there was no
rope--no sign of Mahommed ben Hamza and his men. You can think
of a lot of things while you fight for your life eighty miles
away from help. I wondered whether Grim would throw him over the
parapet, and whether we two would have to take our chance of
mountaineering down that ragged corner of the wall.
But suddenly about a hundred and eighty pounds of human brawn
landed feet-first on my back. A voice said "Taib,* Jimgrim!" and
two other men jumped after him from somewhere on the ruined wall
above us. In another second Abdul Ali was held hand and foot,
tied until he could not move, and then a wheat-sack was pulled
down over his head and made fast between his legs. [*All right.]
"You're late!" said Grim. "Quick! Where's the rope? Are your
men below?"
The thundering on the door had ceased. Either they were coming
up the steps already, or had gone to reach the parapet some other
way. It did not occur to me, or for that matter to any of us in
the excitement of the minute, that they might be holding a
consultation below, or might even have abandoned the idea of
following, although I think now that must be the explanation, for
what we did took more time than it takes to set it down.
Ben Hamza made one end of the rope fast around Abdul Ali's feet.
He would not listen to argument. He said he knew his business,
and certainly the knot was workmanlike. Then he called over the
parapet (an Arab never whistles) and a voice answered from the
southern side of the moat, where some fallen stones cast a
shadow. Then the three of them lifted Abdul Ali over, and
lowered him head-first.
It was a slow business, for otherwise he would have been stunned
against the first projection. I thought that Grim looked almost
as nervous as I felt, but Mahommed ben Hamza was having the time
of his life, and could not keep his tongue still.
"Head upwards a man can yell," he explained to me, grinning from
ear to ear. "Feet upwards, too afraid to yell!" Then the
thundering on the door began again, louder than before it seemed
to me. They were using a battering-ram. But they were too late.
After what seemed like a long-drawn hour we saw shadowy arms
below reach up and seize our prisoner. Then the loose rope came
up again hand over hand.
"You next!" said Grim quietly. He pushed me forward, after
carefully examining the loop Mahommed ben Hamza tied in the end
of the rope.