THE TOMB OF UR-GUR
Charles Thesiger Smith was not one of the romantic, imaginative order
of men. Even if he had been, the speed at which he travelled over the
Bosphorus gave scant opportunity for observation of the scenes passing
below. He had no eye for the tramps, laden with grain from Odessa,
coming down from the Black Sea; for the vessels of ancient shape and
build, such as the Argonauts might have sailed in when questing for
the Golden Fleece; for the graceful caiques rowed by boatmen in
zouaves of crimson and gold, in the sterns of which the flower of
Circassian beauty in gossamer veils reclined on divans and carpets
from the most famous looms of Persia and Bokhara. These visions
touched him not: he was crossing into Asia Minor, a country of which
he knew nothing, and his attention was divided between the country
ahead and the map with which Barracombe had nefariously provided him.
The next stage of his journey, the first place where a fresh supply of
petrol awaited him, was Karachi, in the north-west corner of India. It
was distant about 2,500 miles. A gallon of petrol would carry him for
forty-five miles, and his tank had a capacity of eighty gallons, so
that with good luck he would not need to replenish it until he reached
Karachi. Though he hoped that his own endurance and the engine's would
stand the strain of the whole distance without stopping, he had chosen
his course so that, if he felt the necessity of alighting for brief
intervals, he might at least find pleasant country and amicable
people.
His aim was to cross the Turkish provinces in Asia and strike the
Persian Gulf, a slightly longer route than if he had gone through
central Persia, but having the great advantage of affording a possible
half-way house at Bagdad, Basra, or Bushire, in each of which towns he
would almost certainly find Europeans. It had the further advantage
that, when he had once sighted the Gulf, he would have no anxiety
about the accuracy of his course, since by keeping generally to the
coastline of Persia and Baluchistan he could not fail to arrive at
Karachi. It was a great thing to be independent of nautical
observations, for as he approached the shores of India it might be
difficult to take his bearings by his instruments, this being the
season of the monsoon.
When he left Constantinople his anemometer indicated a velocity of
eighteen miles in the south-west wind, which, as he was steering
south-east, was partly in his favour. One of the disabilities which
he, in common with all airmen, suffered, was the impossibility of
ascertaining the velocity of the wind when he was fairly afloat. He
had to make allowance for it by sheer guesswork, unless he was
prepared to slow down or even to alight. He had reckoned that, even
with the slight assistance of the wind, he could hardly hope to reach
the head of the Persian Gulf before six o'clock, which would be past
nine by the sun; but he thought he might reasonably expect to reach
the Euphrates before sunset; and since the map assured him that that
river ran a fairly direct course to the Gulf, he might follow it
without much difficulty if the night proved clear, and so assure
himself that he was not going astray.
The country over which he was now flying was hilly, and he kept at a
fairly high altitude. The map showed him that the great Taurus range
lay between him and the eastern extremity of the Mediterranean. Within
an hour and a half after leaving Constantinople he came in sight of
its huge bleak masses stretching away to right and left, but still a
hundred miles or more distant, although, on the right, spurs of the
Cilician part of the range jutted out much nearer to him. On the
right, too, he descried from his great height a broad and glittering
expanse of water, which the map named Lake Beishehr. Making for the
gap in the mountains near the Cilician coast he found himself passing
over a comparatively low country, and soon afterwards descried the
blue waters of the Mediterranean and the island of Cyprus rising out
of it a hundred miles away.
Setting now a more easterly course, he passed over an ironbound coast,
its perpendicular cliffs fringed with dwarf pines; and then over a
large town which could be none other than Antioch. Half-an-hour more
brought him within sight of another city, doubtless Aleppo. He still
steered almost due east, though a point or two southward would be more
direct, because he wished to avoid the Syrian desert; a breakdown in
such a barren tract of country would mean a fatal delay. Soon
afterwards he reached a broad full river, flowing rapidly between
verdant banks.
"The Euphrates," he shouted to Rodier.
"Ah! I wish we had time for a swim," replied the man.
For some time Smith followed the general course of the river, avoiding
the windings. Severely practical as he was, he could not pass through
this seat of ancient civilizations without letting his mind run back
over centuries of time, recalling the names of Sennacherib, Cyrus and
Alexander; and how Cyrus had not shrunk from drying up the bed of
this very river in his operations against Babylon. On the ground over
which he now flew mighty armies had fought, kingdoms had been lost and
won, four or five thousand years ago. The passage of so modern a thing
as an aeroplane seemed almost a desecration of the spirit of
antiquity, an insult to the _genius loci_.
Hitherto the weather and the conditions for flying had been perfect.
The wind had dropped, the sun shone brilliantly, but its heat was
tempered to the airmen by the very rapidity of their flight. At
length, however, about two hours before sunset, Smith noticed a
strange wobbling of the compass needle. It swung this way and that
with rapid gyrations, its movements becoming more violent every
moment. Suddenly the aeroplane reeled; the sky seemed to become black
in one instant; there was a vivid flash of lightning, followed by a
tremendous thunder-clap and a flood of rain.
Smith was desperately perturbed. He had run straight into an electric
storm. It was hopeless to attempt to make headway against it; the
strain upon the planes would certainly prove more than they could
stand. He had already slackened speed and planed downwards, so as to
be able to alight if he must, with the result that the machine became
more subject to vertical eddies of the wind, that continually altered
its elevation, now hurling it aloft, now plunging it as it were into
an abyss. Once or twice he tried to rise above the storm, but
abandoned the attempt when he saw how great an additional strain it
placed upon the planes. It seemed safer to keep the engine going
steadily and make no attempt to steer. He was no longer over the
river, and the ground below was comparatively flat, presenting many a
clear spot suitable for alighting; but with the wind blowing a
hurricane a descent might well prove disastrous. The worst accidents
he had suffered in the early days of his air-sailing had always
happened near the ground, when there was no way on the machine to
counteract the force of the wind.
All that he could do was to cling on and do his best by quick
manipulation of the levers to keep the machine steady. After fifteen
very uncomfortable and, indeed, alarming minutes, the violence of the
wind abated, and the rain became intermittent, instead of pouring down
in a constant flood. The compass was oscillating less jumpily, and it
was now possible to see some distance ahead. Owing to the
extraordinary behaviour of the compass, the baffling gusts of wind,
and the necessity of keeping his whole attention fixed on the
machinery, he had lost all idea of direction and even of time, and he
began to be anxious lest darkness should overtake him before he had
regained his course. But guessing that the area of the storm was of
small extent, he hoped to run out of it, and increased his speed,
expecting in a few minutes to discover the Euphrates again, when all
would be well.
Unhappily, though the wind had dropped, the sky became blacker than
ever, and another deluge of rain fell, so densely that at a distance
of a few yards it seemed to be an opaque wall. Coming to the
conclusion that he had better take shelter until he could at least see
his way, he planed downwards, calling to Rodier to keep a sharp
look-out for a landing place. Suddenly, in the midst of the downpour,
a huge dark shape loomed up ahead, appearing to rise almost
perpendicularly above the plain. For a few seconds it seemed to Smith
that he was dashing into a solid wall of rock. Luckily he had checked
the speed of the engine. He now stopped it altogether, but the
aeroplane glided on by its impetus, and he felt, with a sinking of the
heart, that nothing could save it.
All at once the mass in front seemed to open. Instinctively Smith
touched his steering lever; the aeroplane glided into the fissure; in
two or three seconds there was a bump and a jolt; it had come to a
stop, and was resting on an apparently solid bottom.
Monsieur Alphonse Marie de Montausé, a distinguished member of the
Academy of Inscriptions, a pillar of the Société d'Histoire
diplomatique, and a foreign member of the Royal Society, had been for
nearly a year engaged at Nimrud in the work nearest to his heart, the
work of excavation. It was a labour of love for which he was very
jealous. He believed it was his mission to reveal to an astonished
world the long-buried secrets of ancient civilizations; he could not
bear a rival near the throne of archæological eminence; and in this
exclusive attitude of mind he had undertaken this expedition without
the companionship of a fellow-countryman, or even of any white man,
devoting himself to his patient and laborious toil, assisted only by
an Egyptian cook, a number of Arab labourers, and such natives of
Babylonia as he had attracted to his service by the promise,
faithfully kept, of good and regular pay.
His excavations had been, on the whole, disappointing. He had
unearthed specimens of pottery and metal-work, tradesmen's tablets of
accounts, seals, bas-reliefs, differing little from those which could
be found in many a European museum; but he had not for many months
lighted upon any unique object, such as would open a new page in the
history of archæological research, and make Europe ring with his name.
His money was nearly all expended; his permit from the Ottoman
Government was on the point of expiring; he was sadly contemplating
the necessity of leaving this barren field and returning to France;
he had, indeed, already despatched a portion of his caravan to begin
its long journey to the coast, remaining with a few men to finish the
excavation of the _tell_--the mound covering the remains of a
Babylonish city--on which he was engaged, in the hope of discovering
something of value, even at the eleventh hour. He had almost completed
it, and he could easily hurry after the slow-moving caravan, and
overtake it in a day or two.
One Friday, to his great joy, he came across, in the wall of the
_tell_, a large inscribed mass of brickwork, weighing, perhaps,
half-a-ton, which, from the cursory inspection he was able to make of
it in the semi-darkness, he believed might prove sufficiently valuable
to compensate all the disappointments of the weary months. In his
enthusiasm he had no more thought of his caravan, and though a
terrific thunderstorm burst over the place just as his men were
getting into position the rude derrick by means of which they would
lower the masonry into the trench cut in the side of the _tell,_ his
ardour would suffer no intermission in the work. It is true that in
the trench they were in some measure protected from the storm. The
lashings had been fixed on the brickwork under his careful
superintendence; the men were on the point of hauling on the ropes,
when a thing of monstrous size and uncouth shape glided silently into
the opening of the trench, and came to rest there.
Instantly the men gave a howl of terror, released the ropes, and took
to their heels. Monsieur Alphonse Marie de Montausé was left alone.
Remembering that he was an explorer, an enthusiast, and a Frenchman,
the reader will hardly need to be told that Monsieur de Montausé was
beside himself with fury. The dropping of the ropes had caused the
masonry to fall against one of the feet of the derrick, and it came
down with a crash. But this was not the worst. In the semi-darkness,
the nature of the intruder could not have been clear to Monsieur de
Montausé; but he heard a voice calling in some unknown tongue; some
human being had dared to interlope upon his peculiar domain; and the
wrathful explorer did only what might have been expected of him: he
began to pour forth a torrent of very violent reproof and objurgation,
to which the sober English tongue can do scant justice.
"Ah! scélérats!" he cried. "What do you mean? De quoi
mêlez-vous? You are rogues: you are trespassers. Know you not that
I--oui, moi qui vous parle--have alone the right of entry into this
_tell_? Has not the administration of the French Republic arranged it?
Allez-vous-en, allez-vous-en, coquins, scélérats!"
"Mais, monsieur--" began Rodier, stepping out of the car.
The sound of his own language only added fuel to Monsieur de
Montausé's wrath. Had some rival appeared on the scene at the very
moment when he saw the crown of his long toil? Had some overeager
competitor obtained a permit, come before his time, and arrived to
enter upon the fruits of his predecessor's labours and rob him of half
his glory? "Mais, monsieur," said Rodier, but the explorer fairly
shrieked him to silence, approached him, smote one fist with the
other, and hurled abuse at him with such incoherent volubility that
Smith, whose French was pretty good, could not make out a word of it,
and held on to the levers in helpless laughter.
"Mais, monsieur, je vous assure--" began Rodier again, when he thought
he saw a chance; but the explorer shouted "Retirez-vous! J'insiste que
vous vous en lliez, tout de suite, tout de suite!" And then he began
over again, abuse, recrimination, expostulation, entreaty, pouring in
full tide from his trembling lips. More than once Rodier tried to stem
the flood, but finding that it only ran the faster, he resigned
himself to listen in silence, and stood looking mournfully at his
ireful fellow-countryman until he at length was forced to stop from
sheer lack of breath.
"Mais, monsieur," Rodier's voice was very conciliatory--"I assure you
that our visit is purely accidental. My friend and myself desire only
too much to quit the scene. But you perceive, monsieur, that our
aeroplane--"
"Ah, bah! aeroplane! What have I to do with aeroplanes? You interrupt
my work, I say: the aeroplane is a thing of the present; I have to do
only with the past; there were no aeroplanes in Babylonia. Once more I
demand that you withdraw, you and your aeroplane, and leave me to
pursue my work in tranquillity."
"Mais, monsieur, il s'agit précisément de ça! Withdraw: yes,
certainly, at the quickest possible: but how? You perceive that our
aeroplane is so placed that one cannot extricate it without
assistance. If monsieur will be so good as to lend us his
distinguished help, so that we may remove it from this hole--"
"Hole! Mille diables! It is a trench; a trench excavated with many
pains in this _tell_. As for assistance, I give you none, none
absolutely. You brought your aeroplane here without assistance: then
remove it equally without assistance; immediately: already you waste
too much time."
"Mais, monsieur, our mission is of life or death."
"N'importe, n'importe. I tell you I am quite unmoved. No interest is
superior to that of science--the science of archæology. I tell you I
have just made a discovery of the highest importance. I have but a
short time left; you, you and your ridiculous machine, have scared
away my imbeciles of workmen; they will not return until you have gone
away; the leg of my derrick is smashed; I demand, I beseech, I
implore--"
"Pardon, monsieur," said Smith, coming forward, and courteously
saluting the stout, spectacled little Frenchman, whom he could just
see in the growing darkness. "We regret extremely having put you to
this trouble and inconvenience, and I assure you that but for the
storm we should never have dreamed of entering here, and interrupting
the great work on which you are engaged."
Smith's quiet voice and slow, measured utterance made an instant
impression. A man can hardly rave against a person who remains calm.
Moreover, the Frenchman was mollified by the speaker's evident
appreciation of the value of his work.
"Eh bien, monsieur?" he said courteously.
"I am a seaman, monsieur," proceeded Smith; "my friend here is an
engineer, and between us I have no doubt that we can repair the leg of
your derrick and assist you to place the masonry where you will. All
that I would ask is that you in return will help us to remove our
aeroplane from your trench into the open plain."
"Certainly, certainly; with much pleasure," said the Frenchman
eagerly; "I will light my lantern, so that we may see what we are
about."
Smith and Rodier stripped off their drenched coats, and by the light
of Monsieur de Montausé's lantern soon spliced up the broken leg of
the derrick, set the contrivance in a stable position, and lowered the
mass of brickwork to the spot the explorer pointed out. It was no
sooner safely settled than Monsieur de Montausé, oblivious of
everything else, bent over it, and, holding one of the lanterns close
to the inscription, began to pore over the fascinating hieroglyphics.
Smith could not help smiling at the little man's enthusiasm: but it
was necessary to remind him of his share of the compact.
"Ah, oui, oui," he said impatiently; "in a few moments. This is a
magnificent discovery, monsieur; your aeroplane is completely
uninteresting to me. This is nothing less than a portion of the tomb
of Ur-Gur; see, the inscription: 'The tomb of Ur-Gur, the powerful
champion, King of Ur, King of Shumer and Akkad, builder of the wall of
Nippur to Bel, the king of the lands.' This was written nearly five
thousand years ago; what is the aeroplane, a thing of yesterday, in
comparison with this glorious relic of antiquity?"
"Precisely, monsieur; beside it the aeroplane sinks into
insignificance; yet, as a man of honour--"
"Ah, oui!" cried the Frenchman, starting up. "Let us be quick, then;
you take one end, I the other. You push, I pull; voilà!"
"It is perhaps not so simple, monsieur," said Smith; "we must first
see that there is no obstruction, and then if you could persuade some
of your men to come back, we should be able to remove the aeroplane
more quickly. I fear we could hardly do it alone."
Monsieur de Montausé was so anxious to get rid of his visitors that he
assented eagerly to this course. Four or five of the men, drawn back
by the light of the lantern, were hovering at the end of the trench;
the explorer hailed them, and assuring them that they would suffer no
harm, persuaded, them to lend a hand. Rodier, meanwhile, had walked
through the trench to see that the course was clear, and shoved aside
with little ceremony some of the objects Monsieur de Montausé had
unearthed. With the aid of the Frenchman himself and his men the
aeroplane was carefully dragged out into the open.
"It is done. Adieu, messieurs," said Monsieur de Montausé. Then,
turning to his men: "As for you, imbeciles, I have no more need of you
at present. Go and eat your supper. I shall eat nothing until I have
deciphered the whole of the inscription."
"One moment, monsieur," said Smith; "we were driven out of our course
by the storm, and I am not certain of our whereabouts. Can you tell me
the latitude and longitude of this place?"
"Ah, no. I am not a geographer. The surface of the globe: bah! It is
the rind of the orange, it is the shell of the nut; I seek the juice,
the kernel. But I can tell you this: We are not far from the left bank
of the Tigris, near its confluence with the Zab, and about a hundred
kilometres from the ruins of Nineveh. Adieu, monsieur."
The two airmen resumed their coats, switched on their searchlight, and
made a rapid examination of the engine, which appeared to have
suffered no injury: then took their places. When the sparking began,
and noisome smoke poured from the exhaust, the workmen again yelled,
but as the machine, after a short run, sailed noisily into the air,
they fell prostrate in utter consternation.