Esbul, the Armenian
A grilling sun poured its rays down on to the desert and on to the heads
and backs and shoulders of the Turks and British and Indians alike. Its
glancing rays shone and flashed with startling brilliance from the broad
sheet of water flowing so smoothly along beside the right flank of the
British, making the naval sloops, which had come up the Shatt-el-Arab,
stand out more prominently, more vindictively, as it were, than usual.
The scene of this conflict might, but a day or two before, have been
described by a visitor to this portion of Mesopotamia as entirely and
absolutely uninteresting; for where could there be interest in a wide,
almost flat stretch of sandy-gravel desert, bordered in the far
south-west by a stretch of noisome green-clad marshes, and on the right
by a river some seven hundred yards in breadth perhaps, almost innocent
of vessels, and whose banks showed scarce a habitation.
But see it now on this day of battle. As deserted it seemed as ever, as
flat and devoid of landmarks as possible; and yet, when one looked
closely at it, when--supposing one had clambered to the top of the
tallest palm-tree--one peered at the desert and searched its every yard
through a pair of glasses; see those lines of trenches--trenches which
the British Expeditionary Force had delved at furious speed during the
hours of darkness--stretching away at right angles to the river. See
those British guns dug in behind the trenches, well behind, and those
others craftily hidden amongst the palm-trees, close to the
Shatt-el-Arab; and cast a glance to the far left of the lines of
trenches, and note those horsemen well away in the desert, waiting for
an opportunity to outflank and round up the enemy. Yes, and beyond, in
parallel lines, were the Turkish trenches, just as Geoff had seen them
on the previous day. Deep lines cut in the soil like those of the
British, seemingly unpeopled, and yet swarming with soldiers ready to do
battle.
But as yet the time had not arrived, and those swarming soldiers sat in
their trenches invisible, save for a busy sentry here and there who
peeped warily over the parapet and looked towards the enemy. But tiny
columns of smoke hung above the troops, and doubtless many a meal was
being cooked over many a brazier. Perhaps it was five in the morning,
for men must fight early where the sun is hottest. A gun sounded from
the river, while a puff of smoke belched from the bows of one of the
sloops anchored in the fairway. It was answered almost immediately by a
trumpet-call in the far distance, and that imaginary person watching
from the top of a palm-tree would have observed that the British cavalry
were in motion.
"It's coming off!" Geoff told Phil enthusiastically, as he cantered up
to the position held by the reserves of the Mahrattas. "We ain't going
back, not a foot, and before nightfall we ought to have cleared them out
of their trenches. A frontal attack, my boy, and not sufficient time
nor sufficient guns to blow a way through them."
Phil grinned up at his chum, a rather nervous little grin, for that was
this gallant young fellow's way when he was excited and there were
things doing.
"Cold steel, eh?" he said. "Then the Mahrattas are the boys to do it."
And yet the hours wore away with little else but gun-fire and
rifle-volleys, while the men sweltered and sweated in their trenches.
Imagine the heat in those narrow dug-outs, with a tropical sun pouring
right down into them, and men congregated closely.
"A charge ain't nuffin' to it," one of the men told a comrade, as he
wiped the sweat from his forehead with a grimy, desert-stained hand.
"Swelp me! I wish I was in at 'em. What's a-keepin' of us?"
The comrade addressed stared back at him blankly, for indeed the
question was entirely beyond him. Mechanically, abstractedly, he pulled
a little cloth bag from his tunic pocket, and from another a clay of
venerable appearance, and somewhat attenuated it is true, seeing that
the stem had broken off midway, and slowly stuffed the bowl with the
weed he favoured. Just as slowly, just as abstractedly, he applied a
lighted match to the bowl, and began to smoke almost sadly, growling
into the stem, puffing huge columns of smoke against the parapet of the
trench, and giving vent to low, angry growls, as though he were a dog in
a very bad temper. Then, of a sudden, he delivered himself of
well-considered opinions.
"Whoi ain't we a-doin' nuffink?" he asked in the most excellent cockney.
"Whoi nah, if Oi was the G.O.C.--and Oi tells yer there's more things
than that what's more unlikely--if Oi was the G.O.C. Oi'd just be up
and doin'. See 'ere, Bill, Oi 'aint got nuffink up against 'im--that's
the G.O.C.--for every chap along of us knows that 'e's a good 'un, but
you just moind me, if that there G.O.C. was along 'ere in the trenches,
a-swelterin' and a-sweatin', whoi, 'e'd know what it was, and 'e'd be
for gettin' along with the business. 'E ain't afraid, not 'arf! But
well, what's 'e after?"
His comrade coughed, a satirical, nasty, impatient sort of cough, and
again dashed the sweat from his forehead.
"That's just what I was askin' you," he said, contempt in his voice,
deep displeasure, disgust if you will, for indeed these two gallant
fellows were eager to be up and doing, while inertia told upon their
nerves and their tempers. "That's the very question. What is he doin'
this 'ere G.O.C., a-keepin' us sweltering away in these 'ere trenches.
Now you've wondered what you'd do if you was 'im. I'll tell yer what I'd
do if I wore 'is shoes, and 'ad control of the troops what's with us.
I'd----"
A Turkish shell plumping into the sand just a yard in front of that
parapet somewhat disturbed the deliberations of these two arm-chair
(that is, arm-chair for the moment) soldiers, for it burst with a
splitting, thundering, shaking report, and promptly blew in the face of
the trench on them. It was a couple of very angry, somewhat startled,
and very disgusted individuals who finally scooped their way out of the
mass which had almost buried them, and again sat down on the firestep of
the trench to compare notes on the occurrence. But they had little time
to continue, for that shell seemed to have been the signal for more
active operations. Turkish guns belched missiles at the British, while
British guns answered them with a vengeance. Then those horsemen
careering out on the left flank of the Expeditionary Force were seen to
be making off at an angle which would carry them beyond the flank of the
Turks, and threaten to surround them. A movement, too, was seen amongst
the men in the British trenches. Officers' whistles sounded shrilly,
while hoarse commands were shouted.
"Make ready to leave trenches! Fix bayonets!"
From the far end of the line numbers of figures suddenly clambered over
the parapet of the trench and darted forward, only to throw themselves
on the ground when they had covered perhaps a hundred yards, and before
the Turkish rifles or machine-guns could get at them. Then the same
movement was repeated farther down, in another spot, and in another, and
another. In an incredibly short space of time rifle-firing had become
furious and unceasing, and had been transferred from the line of British
trenches to those figures lying out in the open. Nor were they left
there for long unsupported, for once more the movement commenced, and
other groups dashed out to join them, while British guns thundered on
unceasingly. In this way, little by little, by short rushes, the
infantry advanced towards the enemy trenches, while the cavalry and the
naval sloops had also come into action. Turks could be seen moving to
their right flank to oppose the former, while the sloops steamed higher
up the river till they outflanked the Turks, and could enfilade their
position.
It was at this stage that Geoff was again sent out with a message, and,
taking the precaution to leave Sultan well in the rear--for to have
ridden him forward would have been to court disaster--he made a dash for
the trenches, and from there to the line of the swarthy Mahrattas
stretched out in the open. On the way he had delivered his message, and
the temptation to join his old regiment and to hunt up his chum Philip
was too strong for him. Creeping and rolling he finally came upon that
young hopeful beside his platoon, and lay down near him.
"How d'you like it?" Philip shouted at him, for the rattle of rifles
drowned the ordinary voice. "I hope they won't keep us out here very
long, for those Turkish soldiers are fairly good marksmen, and it is
hard luck for men to be shot whilst lying here and doing nothing. Looks
as though we were going to charge the trenches."
"That's the order," Geoff told him. "We're near enough already, and if
you look towards the enemy's position you'll see that some of them are
already retiring."
A glance over the figures of his men showed Phil indeed numbers of Turks
crawling from their trenches and fleeing across country. Farther back a
team of battery horses swung in behind a gun position, and, raising his
glasses, Geoff watched as the gunners endeavoured to hitch the team to
their weapon and pull it out of its dug-out. But it was an operation
they never accomplished, for a shell sailing over the position
spluttered shrapnel in all directions, putting the better part of the
team out of action and scattering the gunners.
"Charge!"
Whistles shrieked down the line. Officers sprang to the front of their
companies, while British and Indians, helmeted and turbaned figures,
leapt to their feet, and, with bayonets advanced, dashed across the
space which intervened between themselves and the enemy positions.
Hoarse guttural shouts left the throats of those British warriors who
had come to Mesopotamia, while the higher-pitched cheers of the Indians
mingled with them; and then, reserving their breath for the assault,
heedless of the bullets which picked out numbers of them, and caused men
to roll and bowl over, and which laid them out stark and stiff on the
desert, the men went on in silence--that British silence, that dour,
cold, remorseless calm which before now on many a field has scared the
enemies of Great Britain. But it only lasted a few moments, until, in
fact, the Turkish trenches were reached, and the men were in amongst the
enemy. Yes, in amongst the enemy, for the Turks, to do them justice, had
not all of them deserted their position. Many clung to their trenches
with reckless bravery, and now crossed bayonets with men of the
Expeditionary Force, with reeling, shouting men from the good County of
Dorset, with tall, lithe, dusky sons of the race of Mahrattas, with
sweltering, cursing white men, with dusky subjects of the King-Emperor
who leapt at their enemies with the swift bound of a tiger. There was
the crash of steel, the rattle and thud of rifle-butt coming against
rifle-butt; there were yells and screams; there was the dull ugly sound
of the bayonet-point as it struck some metal object--perhaps a
button--and, sheering from it, went silently through its victim. There
were the groans of bayoneted Turks; there was the cough of men whose
chests had been transfixed, and whose lungs were flooded with blood.
It was a charge, a charge home, a charge which swept the British force
into and over the enemy trenches, which hurled the Turks from their
line, and which won a position for our men which, earlier in the day,
the German officers had considered impregnable. Yes, German officers,
white-faced sons of the Teutonic Empire, officers of the Kaiser, sent to
carry his mission of world-wide conquest into Turkey in Asia, lay still
and cold and white, their sightless eyes staring up at the burning sun
which hung like a blazing orb above them.
It was war, this scene; and what was left when the howls and shouts of
the soldiers had died down was the result of war, as it has been from
earliest times, with just a few little changes and alterations which the
growth of knowledge, the advance of science, and, in these latter days,
the enormous increase in mechanical inventions have brought to it. Men
die much in the same way, whether they be transfixed by the short
stabbing sword of one of the old Roman Legionaries or by the bayonet of
a British soldier; an arrow sent by a cross-bow, or by one of the old
bows of England, has, or let us say had in the old days, much the same
effect upon the man it struck as have bullets discharged from these-day
weapons. A vital part is struck, and the man dies, and lies there,
looking much the same to-day as when Roman Legions traversed this very
spot in Mesopotamia.
"An ugly sight," you will say, "the horrible result of men's passions."
War? Yes, the result of war! But war not sought by King George or his
people. That somewhat ghastly scene which Geoff looked upon, once the
Turkish trenches had been captured, was not the doing of Great Britain,
of France, of Russia, or of any of the Allies. It was the direct result
of an ambitious policy fostered in Germany, a policy which had thriven
and grown during forty years or more of ceaseless activity, which aimed
at world dominance, and which, here in Mesopotamia, in France, in
Poland, in a thousand places, was to produce the same and worse
scenes--scenes of slaughter; scenes where men were robbed of their
lives--young men who might have lived on and been of vast use to their
own country, and would have done so, no doubt, had the Kaiser and his
war lords not hatched that conspiracy to seize the whole world and bring
it into the subjection of the Hohenzollerns.
Philip plumped himself down beside Geoff, and, pulling his water-bottle
to the front, presented a cup of water to him. There was sweat on his
brow; his face, his hands, his tunic, every part of him, was stained
with sandy dust, which had been washed into little furrows on his face
by the perspiration which had streamed from his forehead. He was gasping
still, as was Geoff; his eyes were shining, while a glance at the young
fellow showed that he was still filled with excitement.
"We got home," he told his chum, "and the Mahrattas went in like lions."
Geoff nodded, and, tossing his head back, drained the cup of water.
"Like lions!" he agreed enthusiastically. "And the Dorsets, my boy! Did
you hear them? Did you hear those boys go in at the Turks? It was
ter--r--if--ic! Hallo, what's that? Look over there!"
Away on the left they could see British horsemen galloping in wide
circles to round up fugitives from the lines so recently vacated by the
enemy, and here and there parties of troopers were cutting across the
desert so as to encircle men who were striking towards their left and
looked like escaping. And amongst the fleeing Turks were some who were
mounted, and amongst them, no doubt, more than one German officer. Geoff
had been watching them for a moment, and now had his attention attracted
to a little group clear of the British horsemen just then, and appearing
to have every chance of getting away safely. Of a sudden he saw a
horseman burst from the group, while shots were fired as he spurred away
from the others; then a couple from the group swung their horses round
and set off in pursuit, careless of the fact that the fugitive was
turning his mount in the direction of the British. It was an amazing
sight, and drew exclamations from many.
"What's it mean?" demanded Philip, still puffing and blowing after his
exertions.
"Don't know, but I'm going to see."
Geoff leapt across the trench, at the bottom of which lay many wounded
and dead Turks, and sped across the open over which our troops had so
recently and so gallantly advanced. In the distance he caught sight of
his own fine Arab, of Sultan, and, signalling wildly with his hands,
managed to attract the attention of the syce in charge of him. The man
leapt into the saddle in an instant, and before many minutes had
passed, Sultan, blowing and stamping and fidgeting, was pulled up within
a few feet of our hero. To change places with the syce was the work of
only a few moments, and in a trice Geoff was off again, and leaping his
mount over the trenches sped on towards that horseman who had so
strangely and so inexplicably burst his way from the group escaping from
the British. He had a mile or more to cover, but Sultan made nothing of
it. Indeed, in a little while Geoff had drawn quite close to the man,
and, swinging Sultan round, was soon riding beside him. At the same time
he turned, and drawing his revolver emptied it at the two men still
pursuing. Whether his bullets went wide of their mark or narrowly
escaped meeting a billet he never knew, but their effect was excellent,
for the men pulled in their horses, and, having fired in return without
result, swung their mounts round and galloped off to join their
companions.
[Illustration: "GEOFF TURNED, AND, DRAWING HIS REVOLVER, EMPTIED IT AT
THE TWO MEN STILL PURSUING"]
"Who are you?" demanded Geoff, pulling in Sultan.
"An Armenian, Excellency."
"And why with the Turks? You are not a soldier," said Geoff, noticing
that the man was in civilian costume.
"A soldier? No, Excellency. A messenger merely, one who bears a missive
to the British."
"Then a friend of the British, eh?" asked Geoff.
"A friend? Yes, always. In the service of a British Pasha these many
years. A friend, at heart, of England."
Geoff stared at the man, and then, setting Sultan in motion, rode
along, the man trotting his horse beside him.
"A message, eh?" asked Geoff after a while, having pondered deeply. "For
the British, you say?"
"For the British, Excellency, for any whom it may concern. News of an
English pasha who came but lately to this country."
"Oh, whom? The name? For whom is the message intended?"
"Excellency, I was to find the British force invading Mesopotamia. I was
to hand my missive over to an officer of distinction, and I was to
search amongst the officers who came from India for one, a youth, who
might be with them."
"His name?" asked Geoff, now beginning to tremble with excitement, for
who could this white man be who had sent a message? Who could the pasha
be to whom this Armenian referred? Could it be Joe Douglas, his
guardian, that excellent fellow who had befriended him these many years,
and who had so recently gone on an expedition to Asiatic Turkey, and
who, after his custom--a custom that Geoff knew so well--had disappeared
entirely? There was no news from Joe Douglas these many weeks past, not
a line, not a chirrup from him. But could this be his messenger? If so,
Geoff should know him. Swinging round in his saddle he gripped the man's
arm and stared into his face. A moment later he uttered a shout--a shout
of happiness.
"You are Esbul, eh?" he asked.
"And you, Excellency, you are Keith Pasha."
"The message; give it to me," demanded Geoff fiercely, worked up by the
occasion. "Yes, I am Keith Pasha, and your message comes from Douglas
Pasha, my dear guardian."
It was with a shout of joy that he recognized the handwriting of that
gallant soldier who had been as a father to him, and tearing the missive
open he read it with an eagerness which was plainly apparent to the man
who had brought it.
"If this reaches the hand of my ward, Geoff Keith, or of any British
officer, let him give information of my position to the Commanding
Officer of any expedition which may come from India to Mesopotamia. I
have little time or space or means whereby to write a long message, and
therefore must compress my information. I am a prisoner lying in a cell
within a Turkish fort to the north and west of Bagdad, but where
precisely I cannot say, nor do I know the name of this fortress. I was
captured by a German named von Hildemaller. His agents trapped me at a
place I sought outside Bagdad, and seized me. But for a friendly Turk
they would have murdered me on the spot, and, as it is, they handed me
over a prisoner. I make no complaint, but if the expedition advances
towards Bagdad, let it make an effort to relieve me."
Geoff gasped, and re-read the message--devoured it in fact--for it was
good to hear that Joe Douglas was alive, even though he were a prisoner.
"Tell me, Esbul," he said at last, while they continued to ride on
slowly side by side, "this message--you received it from Douglas Pasha
himself? You know where he is imprisoned?"
"Not so, Excellency, not so, Keith Pasha! This man--this devil, I call
him--this German, the smiling, sweet-faced von Hildemaller. Ah! how I
know the man, how I hate, detest, and fear him--he is too strong, too
cunning, too artful to allow your servant or any other friend of Douglas
Pasha to know of his whereabouts. Only von Hildemaller and Turks in high
places can tell of the prison in which my master is shut up."
"But then," said Geoff quickly, "how--how came you to get the message?"
"It is shortly told, Excellency. There is a Jew, an Armenian Jew, in the
city of Bagdad, a great admirer of my master, an old and trusted friend
of his, who has been ever loyal to him."
"I know the man," said Geoff; "tall, angular, and bony; a man who sits
in the market-place and sells embroidery."
"The same," said Esbul; "a wonderful man, who knows secrets that are
hidden from many of us. He it was who brought the message to me in
Bagdad, and bade me bear it in this direction. Yet, clever as this old
Armenian Jew is, he too is ignorant of the place in which Douglas Pasha
is imprisoned."
"But could help one to discover it," cried Geoff, still holding the
message in his hand.
"Who knows, Excellency? This Jew, this Benshi, as they call him, is a
man of parts, and, seeing that he is a friend of the pasha, he will
surely help. But remember, Excellency, Turkey is now at war with your
people; even I, riding towards your camp, and coming upon the Turks in
this position, was seized upon. There was no time in which to
cross-examine me, to find out why I came and whither, and for that
reason, when the retreat began, they--the Turkish officers, and with
them some Germans--were carrying me off with them. But you, Keith Pasha,
they would know at once as an enemy, while I might pass, as indeed I
have, through the country."
Geoff smiled at him, a smile of assurance.
"You forget, Esbul," he said, "you forget that I too have been in
Mesopotamia with Douglas Pasha, that I speak your tongue and Turkish
like a native, and that a fez or Arab clothing can make a wonderful
difference. Why indeed should I not make this attempt to relieve my
guardian? Tell me, Esbul, if in your case your father were imprisoned by
some enemy, and there lay danger and difficulty between you and him and
his prison, would you then count the danger and the difficulty and allow
them to deter you from an attempt at his rescue?"
The tall, lithe young Armenian brought his hand with a sounding flap
against the neck of his horse, while he gave vent to a sharp
exclamation.
"Master," he said emphatically, "I would not! There are many who count
the Armenian people as a shameless, effeminate race, who look upon the
denizens of Erzerum and the surrounding country in which our race dwells
as beneath contempt, unfit for this world, who hate us--and who thereby
show some jealousy of us. But yet, peace-loving as we are, there lies
deep down in the hearts of my brothers a source of courage--courage
which, should the opportunity present itself, will spur them to fight
the Turk and attempt to throw off his governance. Yet the hour might
never come; and, while we wait, massacres take place, and indeed, even
now, my people are being slaughtered. Yes, my master, if there be danger
and difficulty in a task such as the one you mention, it should not
perturb you. For listen, have I, the humble servant of Douglas Pasha,
not braved many dangers in my journey hither? And he, though a good and
liberal master to me, is yet not my father."
Geoff brought his hand down on the Armenian's back with a smack, and
smiled encouragingly at him.
"You've done splendidly, Esbul," he told him, "and you shall see that I
will make the most of this message. Now let us make our way to
Head-quarters."
Still riding slowly side by side, so as to give their horses an
opportunity of cooling, they crossed the desert over which the Turks had
retired, in many cases so precipitately, passing many dead and wounded.
Then they rode their horses over the vacated trenches--that is, vacated
by living men, and now tenanted only by the dead who had so bravely held
them. Beyond, there was the space across which those British and Indian
troops had come hurtling in their mad charge, as they threw themselves
toward the enemy trenches. A little while ago the desert here had been
dotted with figures, some lying prone and stiff and stark, while others
were sitting up and looking about them, and others, yet again, crawling
towards the position now captured by their comrades. A little farther
and Geoff and his companion reached the broad belt of palms which clung
to either side of the broad stretch of the Shatt-el-Arab, to find horses
picketed in the shade, munching contentedly at their daily rations, to
see carts of every description parked beneath the trees, while, in the
open, motor ambulance-wagons purred their way to and fro, as they
brought in the wounded or went off across the hard, sandy desert in
search of others. And in a retired part, just beyond the wagon-park,
they came upon and halted beside a huge tent, over which flew the flag
of the Red Cross. British and Indian orderlies were moving briskly
about, while through the open sides of the tent Geoff caught a glimpse
of stretchers laid in rows, and upon them bandaged soldiers lying very
contentedly, out of the heat of the sun and with the cool breeze playing
in upon them. And out in front of the tent, with the shadows of the
trees cast across it, stood a table whereon lay a wounded man in the
hands of the surgeon. Geoff shuddered, and then looked again; looked and
admired the calmness and unconcern of the officers attending to that
wounded man, their dexterity, the swiftness and silence of the orderlies
who assisted; and then, catching the eye of the wounded man himself--one
of the Dorsets--he returned with a grin the wink with which that
incorrigible individual greeted him.
Geoff turned away, and, dropping from his saddle, hunted up his friend
of the Head-quarters Staff, to whom he presented his message.
"Hum! Douglas Pasha! Glad to know that he is alive. But in prison; eh,
Keith! And he's your guardian!"
For a while the officer looked at the message, and from the message to
Keith, studying his every expression, and then back again to the
message, pursing up his lips and wrinkling his brows thoughtfully.
"Of course," he said, "if this expedition fights its way to the
neighbourhood of Bagdad it might give us an opportunity of relieving the
Major; but then Bagdad happens to be far away."
"Yes, sir," agreed Geoff, vainly attempting to make his voice sound
jubilant and hopeful.
"A long way," repeated the officer, "and we may never cover the
distance; in that case----But of course," he added thoughtfully, looking
again at Geoff, "of course, seeing that you know the country and can
speak the language, you might--eh?--you might make the attempt yourself,
if you could get permission. But such permission is out of the question
now, and you must leave it to the future."
And leave it to the future Geoff had to be content to do, though by
night and by day he still remembered that message, and indeed discussed
it and a prospective journey to Bagdad threadbare with his chum, Philip,
and with Esbul.
"Of course I shall go the first moment I get the opportunity," he told
them both.
"And, with you, Esbul," the Armenian answered him immediately.
"And what about me?" asked Philip. "Ain't I good enough for such a job?
Don't I begin to know Mesopotamia by heart by this time?"
"We'll see," rejoined Geoff enigmatically. "If there's a chance
though--well, you may be sure that I'll go, and take anyone I can with
me."