When Dicky left her house, clothed in his own garments once more, but
the stains of henna still on his face and hands and ankles, he pressed
into the ghazeeyeh’s hand ten gold-pieces. She let them fall to the
ground.
“Love is love, effendi,” she said. “Money do they give me for what is no
love. She who gives freely for love takes naught in return but love, by
the will of God!” And she laid a hand upon his arm.
“There is work to do!” said Dicky; and his hand dropped to where his
pistol lay--but not to threaten her. He was thinking of others.
“To-morrow,” she said; “to-morrow for that, effendi,” and her beautiful
eyes hung upon his.
“There’s corn in Egypt, but who knows who’ll reap it to-morrow? And I
shall be in Cairo to-morrow.”
“I also shall be in Cairo to-morrow, O my lord and master!” she
answered.
“God give you safe journey,” answered Dicky, for he knew it was useless
to argue with a woman. He was wont to say that you can resolve all women
into the same simple elements in the end.
Dicky gave a long perplexed whistle as he ran softly under the palms
towards the Amenhotep, lounging on the mud bank. Then he dismissed
the dancing-girl from his mind, for there was other work to do. How he
should do it he planned as he opened the door of Fielding’s cabin softly
and saw him in a deep sleep.
He was about to make haste on deck again, where his own nest was, when,
glancing through the window, he saw Mahommed Ibrahim stealing down the
bank to the boat’s side. He softly drew-to the little curtain of the
cabin window, leaving only one small space through which the moonlight
streamed. This ray of light fell just across the door through which
Mahommed Ibrahim would enter. The cabin was a large one, the bed was in
the middle. At the head was a curtain slung to protect the sleeper from
the cold draughts of the night.
Dicky heard a soft footstep in the companionway, then before the door.
He crept behind the curtain. Mahommed Ibrahim was listening without.
Now the door opened very gently, for this careful Orderly had oiled
the hinges that very day. The long flabby face, with the venomous eyes,
showed in the streak of moonlight. Mahommed Ibrahim slid inside, took a
step forward and drew a long knife from his sleeve. Another move towards
the sleeping man, and he was near the bed; another, and he was beside
it, stooping over...
Now, a cold pistol suddenly thrust in your face is disconcerting, no
matter how well laid your plans. It was useless for the Orderly to raise
his hand: a bullet is quicker than the muscles of the arm and the stroke
of a knife.
The two stood silent an instant, the sleeping man peaceful between
them. Dicky made a motion of his head towards the door. Mahommed Ibrahim
turned. Dicky did not lower his pistol as the Orderly, obeying, softly
went as he had softly come. Out through the doorway, up the stairs,
then upon the moonlit deck, the cold muzzle of the pistol at the head of
Mahommed Ibrahim.
Dicky turned now, and faced him, the pistol still pointed.
Then Mahommed Ibrahim spoke. “Malaish!” he said. That was contempt. It
was Mahommedan resignation; it was the inevitable. “Malaish--no matter!”
he said again; and “no matter” was in good English.
Dicky’s back was to the light, the Orderly’s face in the full glow of
it. Dicky was standing beside the wire communicating with the engineer’s
cabin. He reached out his hand and pulled the hook. The bell rang below.
The two above stood silent, motionless, the pistol still levelled.
Holgate, the young Yorkshire engineer, pulled himself up to the deck
two steps of the ladder at a time. “Yes, sir,” he said, coming forward
quickly, but stopping short when he saw the levelled pistol. “Drop the
knife, Ibrahim,” said Dicky in a low voice. The Orderly dropped the
knife.
“Get it, Holgate,” said Dicky; and Holgate stooped and picked it up.
Then he told Holgate the story in a few words. The engineer’s fingers
tightened on the knife.
“Put it where it will be useful, Holgate,” said Dicky. Holgate dropped
it inside his belt.
“Full steam, and turn her nose to Cairo. No time to lose!” He had told
Holgate earlier in the evening to keep up steam.
He could see a crowd slowly gathering under the palm-trees between the
shore and Beni Hassan. They were waiting for Mahommed Ibrahim’s signal.
Holgate was below, the sailors were at the cables. “Let go ropes!” Dicky
called.
A minute later the engine was quietly churning away below; two minutes
later the ropes were drawn in; half a minute later still the nose of the
Amenhotep moved in the water. She backed from the Nile mud, lunged free.
“An old man had three sons; one was a thief, another a rogue, and the
worst of the three was a soldier--and he dies first! What have you got
to say before you say your prayers?” said Dicky to the Orderly.
“Mafish!” answered Mahommed Ibrahim, moveless. “Mafish--nothing!” And he
said “nothing” in good English.
“Say your prayers then, Mahommed Ibrahim,” said Dicky in that voice like
a girl’s; and he backed a little till he rested a shoulder against the
binnacle.
Mahommed Ibrahim turned slightly till his face was towards the east. The
pistol now fell in range with his ear. The Orderly took off his shoes,
and, standing with his face towards the moon, and towards Mecca, he
murmured the fatihah from the Koran. Three times he bowed, afterwards he
knelt and touched the deck with his forehead three times also. Then he
stood up. “Are you ready?” asked Dicky.
“Water!” answered Mahommed Ibrahim in English. Dicky had forgotten that
final act of devotion of the good Mahommedan. There was a filter of
Nile-water near. He had heard it go drip-drip, drip-drip, as Mahommed
Ibrahim prayed.
“Drink,” he said, and pointed with his finger. Mahommed Ibrahim took
the little tin cup hanging by the tap, half filled it, drank it off, and
noiselessly put the cup back again. Then he stood with his face towards
the pistol.
“The game is with the English all the time,” said Dicky softly.
“Malaish!” said Mahommed. “Jump,” said Dicky.
One instant’s pause, and then, without a sound, Ibrahim sprang out over
the railing into the hard-running current, and struck out for the shore.
The Amenhotep passed him. He was in the grasp of a whirlpool so strong
that it twisted the Amenhotep in her course. His head spun round like
a water-fly, and out of the range of Dicky’s pistol he shrieked to the
crowd on the shore. They burst from the palm-trees and rushed down to
the banks with cries of rage, murder, and death; for now they saw him
fighting for his life. But the Amenhotep’s nose was towards Cairo, and
steam was full on, and she was going fast. Holgate below had his men
within range of a pistol too. Dicky looked back at the hopeless fight as
long as he could see.
Down in his cabin Fielding Bey slept peacefully, and dreamed of a woman
in Cairo.