PLANS FOR THE FLIGHT
I went to sleep beside a glassless window opening into an empty yard,
after wondering whether we should be able to buy necessary food in the
suq, or whether we should have to break into our hoarded provisions. I
woke to a busy scene and rubbed my eyes in amazement. In one corner was
a white bell-tent, from which came the smoke of a charcoal fire. In
another was tethered an excellent horse with a European saddle. Half a
dozen servants appeared occupied in preparing an immense meal. I called
to Hassanein Bey: “Where on earth did you get all this?”
“_I?_” he replied, bewildered. “I? It is all from Sayed Rida. Do you
realise that that horse is going to stay here for you to ride whenever
you like, that the tent is a fully equipped kitchen and that you’ve got
a cook and I don’t know how many servants besides? You mentioned you
liked dates last night. Well, a huge sack arrived this morning, _and_
meat, _and_ bread, _and_ tea, _and sugar_, and heavens know what beside.
We are the Sayed’s guests and for the Lord’s sake don’t say you like
anything else, or it will arrive here within an hour!”
He paused for breath, while I gazed at him helplessly. When one has come
from an Italian colony one is used to hospitality, for, from the
Governor downwards, everyone was amazingly kind to us, but this was
overwhelming. I felt that a whole garden of floral rhetoric would not
adequately express my gratitude.
We rode out through the deserted stretches of flat white rock and sand
to see great herds of camels being watered. Bronze figures, nude but for
a scarlet loin cloth, shouted and sang with monotonous rhythm as they
let down goatskins at the end of a rope and heaved them up brimming to
pour their contents into rough troughs. A white morabit and single palm
marked the centre of a cluster of sand-coloured houses. Otherwise, the
buildings were scattered over a broad expanse with a straight line of
the suq booths in the centre. We created so much sensation in the latter
that I decided that my grey riding coat and felt hat were out of place.
We told Mustapha, a resplendent individual belonging to one of the
irregular bands, whom the Political Officer at Benghazi had kindly lent
to us, to go and discover someone who wished to sell some native
clothes. He returned half an hour later with a baffled and at the same
time awed expression, in company with Saved Rida’s confident, whose
coal-black face looked out from the folds of an immense white kufiya.
“You are the Sayed’s guests,” the latter informed us respectfully.
“Anything that you need I will get for you at once.” Gravely he offered
me a bulky parcel. It contained the most beautiful white silk jerd,
striped like the one I had silently admired the previous night, with a
green and silver agal, and a kufiya that filled my heart with joy, for
it was a subdued blending of all rich colours-purple and rose and blue
on a silver ground, with long dropping tassels. There was also a
tarboush and a pair of wonderful yellow slippers. Before the faltering
words were out of my mouth, Hassanein Bey had pounced upon the yellow
slippers. His expression was that of a small child when a much-loved
doll has been restored to it. “Hamdulillah!” he exclaimed, and fled,
clutching his prize.
I confess to spending a happy half-hour struggling with the intricacies
of the jerd and picturing myself dressed in Sayed Rida’s splendid gift
offering sweet mint tea to reverend sheikhs. Thereafter we erased any
verbs expressive of desire from our vocabulary, but we did not succeed
in evading our host’s royal generosity. We wanted a couple of small
sacks into which to put a week’s supply of rice and flour, for once we
left Jedabia we should have seven or eight days’ journey to the next
oasis, and we planned to send the baggage camels ahead and ride light on
the fastest beasts we could find. With this intention we again
despatched the brightly clad Mustapha to the suq. Ten minutes later he
was brought firmly back by the Head of the Police, a stalwart black with
a hard, keen face. Our follower was protesting wildly, but to deaf ears,
for behind him came the ebony confidant, Haji Abdel Salam. “I will send
you the sacks,” he told me in the tone of a parent scolding a foolish
child. “The Sayed wishes to give you everything you can need.” Even
Hassanein Bey’s eloquence failed him, while I wondered if we were living
in one of the tales of the Arabian Nights.
Our peace, however, was short-lived. For the first few days at Jedabia
we were in a fool’s paradise. All round us lay the desert. It seemed so
easy a thing to hire a few camels and a guide and disappear over the rim
of the horizon. By the fourth day we had discovered a few of the most
important difficulties. Firstly, there were no camels. There had been an
excellent harvest. The Beduin was rich and he didn’t want to work. It
was impossible to explain the exact destination of the caravan, for the
Holy Oasis is far beyond the bourne of most camel-drivers’ dreams.
Secondly, all work had to be done in secret, because the whole of our
household were spies with the possible exception of the black cook, Ali.
Mustapha had been in the Ufficio Politico and he dutifully reported the
minutest of our doings. The Head of the Police, the stalwart Mabruk, was
also not averse to Latin gold, so he placed his brother to watch us as
horse-boy and, lest that were not sufficient, he sent us a mysterious
servant whose head appeared suddenly at the glassless window whenever
Hassanein Bey and I were studying the Koran or writing notes. We were
never able to relax our vigilance for a second. We used to hold long
Arabic conversations on how pleasant we found life in Jedabia, how we
must certainly stay there a fortnight before returning to Benghazi. We
knew that every word would be overheard and repeated.
Bazaar rumour spoilt our first plan, which was exceedingly simple. We
meant to persuade an ekhwan to accompany us to see some neighbouring
village, where there would be a suppositional marriage or other _festa_,
and from there drift on. We had not reckoned with the fanaticism of the
Moslem. Tales of a wealthy Christian woman about to travel into the
interior spread like a bush-fire. Mustapha came to me with lurid tales
of throats cut almost within sight of the suq. Saved Rida himself
explained that no Christian life was safe beyond the boundaries of
Cyrenaica, and that anyone supposed to have money was a marked prey for
the lawless bands who swept out of the desert, seized their prey and
disappeared into the limitless sands as ants upon an English lawn. We
learnt many things that day. We discovered that Mannismann, the German,
had been killed by his own Arab guard a few hours outside the town
because he had twelve thousand pounds in gold upon him. We heard that
the Tebu tribes of the group of oases erroneously known as Kufra (really
Kufara) have not entirely submitted to the Senussi rule and,
consequently, still attack any caravans travelling beyond Taiserbo. “But
I don’t understand,” I said. “Taiserbo is part of Kufara, isn’t it? It
is marked so in our maps.” “No! No!” replied our informant impatiently.
“Taiserbo is gareeb, gareeb [near]. You can go there easily. It is not
important. There is no sikka [way]. Kufara is much farther on. The
dangerous part is after Taiserbo. If you go to Buseima you may have to
fight.”
Thereafter we began a laborious, systematic campaign to correct the
impression of a rich Christian woman. I discarded my hat for the Sayed’s
beautiful kufiya. Early and late I could be heard reciting verses of the
Koran. I already knew all the obligatory prayers, and took care to
perform them minutely. Moreover, we used to wander through the Beduin
camps which fringed Jedabia, talking to the women and gradually gaining
their confidence. At first we were regarded with the utmost suspicion,
which gradually relaxed as we gave them Moslem salutations and told them
how happy we were to be living an Arab life among Arabs. If a sheikh, a
Haji, came to us, I used to murmur the “Shehada” to him: “Ash hadu illa
Illaha ill Allah wa ash hadu inna Mohammedan rasul Allah,” upon which he
generally blessed me warmly. After a few days I was greeted
enthusiastically and introduced to the solemn-faced babies adorned with
silver amulets and taught how to bake flat, heavy bread in mud ovens.
It is amazing how perfect is the wireless telegraphy system of the
desert. One night, dining with Sayed Rida, I remarked that I was so glad
there was no electric light and that I liked the local colouring and
primitive lighting effect in Arab houses. This was translated into the
bazaar into, “She is a Moslem. She hates all European things. She wants
to keep the old customs as our fathers had them.”
We knew our campaign had succeeded on the eighth day, when, after the
chief spy, despairing of getting a glimpse of us any other way, had
brought us as a gift an absurd black bird with a bald head, a brother of
Ali, the cook, arrived from his camel’s-hair tent. He greeted us kindly
and told us that the Beduins were in sympathy with us, that they knew we
were Moslems and of their own blood.
Thus we felt we had done something to dispose of the probability of
sudden death before we were a hundred kilometres on our way, but all
other arrangements lagged intolerably. The most venerable and respected
of all the ekhwan, Haji Fetater, who had done the great journey right
through Kufara to Wadai, was the one man who could probably help us on
our way. He was of the Mojabra tribe and he so loathed the “Nasrani”
that he would not be in the same room as a Christian. I do not know
whether it was Hassanein Bey’s eloquence, or his sudden discovery that
Sidi es Senussi himself had prophesied that the English would eventually
be converted to Islam that finally induced him to promise to accompany
us. “We are all servants of the Sayed. Only if he tells me to go, must I
go,” he said, but when the prophecy had aroused his enthusiasm, he flung
back his splendid grey head. “I will protect her,” he exclaimed; “I will
take her to Kufara, and she shall kiss the holy qubba and be a Moslem!”
He was eighty years old, but he determined instantly that he would run
the whole caravan and generally instruct us in the art of desert
travelling. He had caught but a glimpse of me as I was hurried from the
house in case my presence therein should pollute him. He can only have
seen an exceedingly shy young person, with respectfully downcast eyes,
in a pale blue tweed suit huddled on a ridiculously small pony, dangling
a swollen foot in a native slipper, but he luckily took it into his head
that he liked me. Hassanein Bey rapidly clinched his acceptance by
repeating the “Fatha,” the opening “sura” of the Koran. This is only
done on very important and solemn occasions and it constitutes at the
same time a blessing and an oath.
Even then our kindly host was not satisfied, but insisted on sending an
escort with us, ten soldiers of his guard, coal-black slaves, under a
commander called Abdul Rahim. He also determined to settle the vexed
question of camels once for all by sending a caravan of his own to
Kufara to bring back some of his belongings and allowing us to travel
with it. To anyone who does not know the East, it would now appear that
things were successfully settled. Not a bit of it! The soldiers were at
Zuetina, distant 24 miles. The camels were at least two days’ journey
away, a matter of 60 miles. They were vaguely described as being in the
region of Antelat, the house of Sayed Rida’s family. Each day we watched
the horizon with anxious eyes. Each day we counted eagerly every row of
black specks that appeared amidst the sun-browned grass and rock, but
neither camels nor soldiers appeared. We had decided that the caravan
should announce its departure for noon and that in reality the long line
of camels should steal past our door at 3 A.M. A few would be driven
round a convenient wall and loaded hastily with all our outfit, after
which we could mount and be 50 kilometres away before anyone knew of our
departure! We could leave letters explaining a sudden opportunity and an
equally sudden determination, and send back further notes from every
oasis _en route_.
Unfortunately, it was a race against time, for everyone was growing
suspicious at my inexplicable desire to stay so long in a little mud
village on the edge of the world. Omar, our Government interpreter, was
determined to get back to Benghazi for Christmas. The delightful cavalry
lieutenant who was political officer at Zuetina was naturally bored at
having to drive his heavy camion three or four times a week from his
little camp by the ocean to see what a mysterious Englishwoman might be
doing in the debatable country on the fringe of civilisation. As the
days wore on they tried by every means in their power to lure me from
Jedabia, but my exceedingly swollen foot did me good service. “The
stirrup hurt it so much riding here that I don’t want to risk it again
till it is quite recovered,” I explained. They suggested camions, and I
assured them I had so much work to do that I was only too glad of the
peace and quiet of my Arab house to do it in.
It was a ludicrous situation. Five young people used to forgather in the
house of the doctor to partake of M. Omar’s delicious _zabagliones_, and
not one of them ever uttered one word of truth! Each felt instinctively
that the other was lying, but none knew exactly how far he was bluffing
or what card he had up his sleeve. Perhaps we were a little better off
than they, for we knew their game and they luckily had failed to
understand ours. The political aspect was always before their eyes. In
their anxiety to know whether Hassanein Bey was plotting a Pan-Islamic
empire with the thirty Egyptian ex-coastguards who had taken refuge with
the Senussi during the war, they overlooked other possibilities. I think
the idea did occur to them that I wanted to go much farther into the
desert than they cared to permit, but I doubt if they suspected our real
goal. This used to surprise me immensely at the time. Looking back, I
realise that it would have been very difficult for them to imagine that
the woman they saw in a panniered frock, with her French hat veiled in
drooping lace and high heels to match the red of her striped cloak,
would metamorphose herself into a Beduin and attempt a journey which
they looked upon as impossible for a European and exceedingly difficult
even for an Arab.
We felt that we had one last card to play that they would never suspect—
a midnight flight. We were loathe to use it, however. We waited
patiently for the camels that did not come, and fenced desperately for
time. Luckily our opponents were deceived by the apparent _froideur_
existing between Hassanein Bey and myself. We had made a point of
disagreeing with each other at every possible opportunity and even
retailed our grievances occasionally to sympathetic ears. Suddenly,
therefore, they took my companion into their confidence, which made
things distinctly easier. Together they used to lay dark plots to induce
me to leave Jedabia, where there was no _café chantant_ and no “Hotel
Nobile!” In spite, however, of this new move, we began to get very
anxious. The spies had redoubled their vigilance. There were no signs of
camels. Mabruk, the Head of the Police, introduced a person into our
house whom he said was an ekhwan from Kufara, evidently intending that
we should question him enthusiastically about his journey. We refrained
from all mention of it, and the supposed ekhwan was so intensely stupid
that one cannot imagine that he could have been much use to any secret
service!
This was our position on December 4 when, on our morning’s wander round
the neighbouring encampments, we saw a line of camels coming in from
Antelat. We instantly jumped to the conclusion that they were ours. One
of the spies was leading the horse on which I was balanced sideways to
protect my lame foot, so we could show no signs of joy, but for a few
hours we made happy plans for the freedom of the desert. We had just
finished a lunch of rice, dates, mutton and mint tea when the blow fell.
The black wazir arrived in considerable perturbation. Not only was there
no news of our camels or of our soldiers, but our opponents were well
aware that a caravan was starting for Kufara in a few days’ time and
that we hoped to travel with it “for a day or two.” Hassanein turned to
me with blazing eyes in a chalk white face. “It’s come to a fight,” he
said, “and I’m glad.” I used to be amused sometimes at the way he
shirked doing the simplest things till the last moment, but in sudden
emergencies the whole strength and energy of the man flamed out and
there was no one in the world I would rather have beside me. He grasped
essentials rapidly and left me to fill in details. “It’s flight on two
camels and the caravan must follow!” he said. As usual, I started to
work out the practical possibilities while he went to gain further news.
I think I shall always remember that long dragging afternoon. The wind
was full of dust, but I took the pony and went down to one of the
encampments feeling I simply could not smile. I felt hopeless and
trapped as if a net were closing round me and there was a numb dead ache
at my heart. Nevertheless I could not help responding to the smiles of
the Beduin women who pressed round me, brilliant blots of colour in
their orange and black, or red and black barracans, with blue tribe
marks tattoed on their foreheads and half a dozen huge silver ear-rings
dangling beneath their plaited hair. One laughed at my white hands
against her black skin. “You have soap to wash with. We have none,” she
said. The lounging white figures in the suq stared at me curiously as I
passed, but did not protest. They had stoned a “Christian dog” from
Zuetina the day before, but I was the Sayed’s guest and therefore
honoured. A dignified sheikh gave me greeting. He was a Haji and he told
me: “We are all under the Sayed’s orders. You may go safely where you
like among us, for it is the Sayed’s wish.” Mustapha listened eagerly.
“It is true,” he said. “The Sayed is great. All the people fear him.
Otherwise they would kill every Christian in the country.”
I began to realise the vast problem with which Italy is faced and to
admire more than ever the way she is dealing with it. For the moment
Europe has no message for the fierce fanatics of Libya, but the fertile
_altipiano_ of Cyrenaica, only a few miles from the sea, will have a
prosperous future. Italian workmen have done so much to build up the
prosperity of Egypt and Tunis. There is a wide field opening for them
from Zuetina to Tobruk in which their industry and thrift may benefit
their own country. Cyrenaica, once the granary of the Roman Empire, will
be fittingly colonised by the descendants of those legionaries who left
their trace from Cyrene to far-off Misda. The budding colony should have
a splendid agricultural future and the friendship between Italy and the
Senussi, recently cemented at Regima, should open up the old trans-
Saharan caravan routes. The Sultan used to confide his most precious
merchandise to the protection of Sidi Ben Ali es Senussi on its long
journeys to Wadai. Why should not the same arrangement be made between
the Governor of Cyrenaica and the hereditary Emir of the Senussi?
The sun was setting as I left the suq, a blaze of deep, flaming orange
that we never see in Europe. The sky was molten in the crucible. I sent
away the pony and sat crouched on the sand to watch the glory fade. A
camel or two passed like huge distorted shadows across the burning west.
A few white shrouded figures went by me with a soft “Bismillah!” I ached
for a horse, a camel, anything that would take me away into the wide
spaces beyond Jedabia. The strain of suspense eased a little in the
evening, for during one of our games of cross purpose at the doctor’s
house we discovered that our opponents proposed to prevent our
accompanying the caravan on the ground that no ekhwan was going with it.
Apparently they still did not suspect our ultimate destination, but we
were not at all certain that they had not wired for the camions from
Benghazi. We sat up late that night in the silent court with the stars
above us, and the guardian walls, which I had learned to love, shutting
out all eavesdroppers. The spies retired in a body after our frugal
dinner and Ali was always thankful to spend the night in the family
tent. We decided on a simple but somewhat desperate plan. We felt that
we should be allowed only two or three more days in Jedabia without an
open fight, and we could not be certain of the twenty camels necessary
for the caravan. Therefore we decided to leave practically all our
luggage behind and go off in the middle of the night, if possible, with
the ekhwan. Our little world would be told next morning that we had gone
to visit some of the neighbouring camps and would return in a day or
two. To reassure them they would see all our clothes hanging up on their
usual pegs, most of our suit-cases scattered about the room, our sacks
and boxes of provisions stored in various corners, even my camp chair
and the table on which I wrote.
[Illustration: AHMED MOHAMMED BEY HASSANEIN, MY FELLOW EXPLORER]
On December 6 we did a hard morning’s work. After our date and egg
breakfast we settled ourselves with a Koran and note-books behind closed
doors and said we did not wish to be disturbed. As soon as our retinue
had retired to the white bell-tent which served as kitchen we set to
work on the provision boxes. We emptied them of their contents and
carefully filled them with immense stones which we laboriously collected
from an inner court in course of construction. On top we put layers of
straw and a few tins which could be seen through carefully arranged
chinks. We sorted out an extra week’s provisions to add to those we had
already prepared and the rest we put into big sacks, with the intention
of sending these latter at midnight, when the spies were sleeping
peacefully, to some place where they could be stored until the dilatory
camels arrived and the caravan started. They would then be packed
unostentatiously with all the rest of the loads and when we joined the
caravan a few days’ journey on the way to Aujela we should recover our
most necessary provisions. We ourselves, with the tent, two rolls of
bedding, a fortnight’s provisions and two suit-cases chiefly containing
films, medicine, apparatus, candles, soap, etc., would disappear the
following night in Beduin clothes.
[Illustration: SAYED RIDA ES SENUSSI]
I confess to feeling a certain pang when I realised that I must leave
every single European garment behind except a pair of riding boots and
breeches and a woollen sweater. Hassanein said he thought it was
carrying realism too far. I understood the reason when, sternly
insisting that his one suit-case should hold half the apparatus and only
the simplest necessities of life, it disgorged seven different coloured
bottles of eau de Cologne and a mass of heterogeneous attire more suited
to Bond Street than to the Sahara. I had to superintend the packing lest
he ignore the claims of malted milk tablets, towels and woollen
underclothing in favour of delicately striped shirts and a lavender silk
dressing-gown! We wondered if we should ever see again the garments we
left gracefully decorating the walls in order to indicate the imminence
of our return, or whether a new fashion would be set in Jedabia!
At lunch time the tailor came to fit my strange garments. It appeared
that Sayed Rida wished to give me no fewer than four suits, but I
assured him that I wanted only one to be photographed in and to show my
friends in England. We finally compromised on two, one of which arrived
that evening, an oddly shaped pair of trousers, very narrow at the
ankle, made of white calico spotted with green leaves, and a dress like
a voluminous chemise of dark red cotton with a blue pattern. We were
told that the camels were ready but that the ekhwan was already
regretting his moment of enthusiasm. “Will he be ready to start to-
morrow at midnight?” “Inshallah!” was all the answer we got. Our plan
was so simple, but it depended on two nights’ secrecy and secrecy is
impossible among Arabs!
However, we pretended not to worry. “El Maktub maktub!” we said, but I
caught Hassanein anxiously opening the Koran to see whether a verse
chosen at random would prove a good omen. He was delighted because the
first one he saw read: “_Nasrun min Allahi wa fathan garib_” (“Victory
and an opening out from Allah are near”). I was not very much more
composed myself, for on repeating the long formal prayers that afternoon
I realised from my companion’s horrified face that I was ascribing unto
Allah salutations, prayers and—physics! (_Tabiat_ instead of _ta-hi-
bat_.)
Sayed Rida took us for a drive in his car in the afternoon. There are no
roads or even tracks beyond Jedabia, but the sand is hard and smooth.
The Sayed thought it would be a good thing to show himself openly with
us, and indeed, our fame increased after that drive. When we returned
the whole of our household had attired itself in clean white garments
and there was an awed moment while they all reverently kissed the
Senussi’s hand. They dared not approach very close to do it, lest their
garments touch their holy master, but it was wonderful to see the
worship and homage they put into the act. They were chattels in the hand
of the Sayed. As wakil of Sidi Idris he represented to them, as he does
to thousands like them, the mystic being chosen by Allah to direct them.
Their lives are his to command. He is their supreme judge as he is their
defender and their guide. It is difficult for a European to realise the
power held by the Senussi family, for there has been nothing approaching
it in Europe. It is a reflection of the temporal and spiritual Papacy at
its height. For instance, Sidi Idris might order one of the oldest and
noblest ekhwan to start the following day for a two-thousand-mile
journey to Lake Chad, and he would obey unquestioningly, without
preparation or even surprise. “We are the servants of the Sayed,” he
would say as he wrapped his burnus round him and prepared to face the
waterless sands.
When we decided on flight as the only possible means of leaving Jedabia,
we asked Sayed Rida for a guide. He gave us Yusuf el Hamri and Mohammed
Quemish and, calling them into our presence, he told them that if
anything happened to us, whether by their fault or not, they would die
immediately. The men accepted the statement as undoubted fact. Yet as
Sayed Rida sat in our only camp chair in my big bare room, drinking
sweet tea and eating Hassanein’s last macaroons, it was difficult to
realise that the fate of a country probably lay in his capable hands.
The Sayed might declare a Holy War to-morrow against the infidels, and
Islam, from Wajanga to the Mediterranean, might respond, but that
afternoon our host talked with the simplicity of a child. We were trying
to thank him for his amazing hospitality and for the permission he had
given us to travel to Egypt by way of the great desert, which included
the loan of camels, guides and an escort of soldiers, besides immense
gifts of food and native clothing.
Coming from an Italian colony we had become used to gracious
hospitality, but Sayed Rida’s generosity was overwhelming. I have
travelled in half the countries of the world; I have been the guest of
mandarin and boundary rider, or rajah, Fijian ras and North-West Mounted
Police and of every intermediate race and grade, but I have never
received such generous, unquestioning welcome as in Beduin countries.
Some of the happiest weeks of my life were spent in Syria as the guest
of a great Arab prince. I used to think that nothing could match his
kindness, but here in Jedabia I found its equal in another descendant of
the Prophet, a Sherif of Islam.
We asked Sayed Rida if we could send him anything from Cairo, our
thoughts running to a jewel or a gold inlaid rifle. He asked for a green
parrot and some gramophone records with a smile as delightful as his
brother’s.
“You see,” he said, “my life is rather lonely. It is not wise that I go
out or that I show myself very much to our people. Our family is holy
and we must live a secluded life. We may not see dancing or hear
singing. Our people would not understand, but sometimes when I am alone
late at night I play the gramophone, for I love music very much.” A
curiously sweet smile illumined his kindly face and he beat time to an
imaginary tune with a jewelled finger. “I do not like much noise,” he
said. “I like the sad, soft melodies best. I think all music should be
melancholy.”
For a moment he was a child thinking wistfully of a toy and then, as Ali
entered bent double with respect over his tray of tea, the Sayed resumed
the grave dignity in keeping with his gorgeous clothes—a purple
embroidered jelabia under an apple-green silk jubba with a wonderful
crimson and blue kufiya stiff with gold thread and having great tassels
of gold.
Our busy day closed with a most humorous scene. After Ali and the spies
had gone willingly to the amusement or repose they desired, we dragged
the six heavy sacks of provisions one by one out of my room across the
court to the dark yard by the main door. There was no moon. Tinned meat
weighs incredibly heavy. We fell over a lot of loose stones and we
imagined we made a good deal of noise. The peculiar form of an Arab
dwelling, however, precludes the possibility of being overheard. We then
dug stones and sand from the unfinished bit of the house and filled some
most realistic looking dummy sacks which we artistically arranged in the
place of real ones. At 11 P.M. we got one of those unexpected shocks
that send cold shivers down one’s back and desperate thoughts to one’s
brain. There was a sudden knock at the door. It was too soon for our
fellow plotters in search of the luggage. “Min da?” asked Hassanein
icily and I felt the tautened thrill in his voice. “Mabruk,” answered
the voice of the chief spy and then a long ramble about wanting to see
the native garments already delivered, to make a pattern for the others
his brother the tailor was making. As a matter of fact it was a
perfectly genuine demand. We had asked the confidential wazir to hurry
up the making of our clothes and he had done so to such good effect, by
saying it was the Sayed’s wish, that the unfortunate tailor proposed to
work all night, but to our apprehensive ears it sounded very suspicious.
I was glad that Hassanein had not got a revolver on him. He told me
afterwards that his first impulse had been to shoot the man and bury him
instantly! Instead of which he murmured that the “sitt” was in bed and
the magical word which retards the progress of Islam. “Bokra!” (To-
morrow.)
At 1 A.M. Hassanein, shrouded from head to foot in a white jerd, was
waiting just outside the main door. A few minutes later there was the
faintest scratch on the heavy wood. Almost before he had pulled it open
seven dark figures, muffled up to the eyes, utterly unrecognisable,
slipped into the yard. Not a word was uttered. Dexterously they
shouldered the provision sacks and stepped away into the night without a
murmur. Of course they simply revelled in the mystery and secrecy of it,
but we wondered how soon rumour would reach the bazaar!