The Road to Bagdad
Free from prison, after an adventure the success of which might well
stimulate them to greater effort, to greater daring, and give them hopes
beyond any they had possessed during the weary weeks of waiting which
had passed, it was yet not by any means certain that Geoff Keith and his
chum Philip would ever win their way back to that Expeditionary Force
with which they had landed in Mesopotamia. It was weeks and weeks, and
it seemed to them years, since they had been captured with Esbul at
Nasiriyeh; and though their jailer had not been entirely
uncommunicative--for at heart he was quite a genial fellow, and the
thought of reward warmed his heart wonderfully--yet they had failed to
hear of the easy, bloodless capture of Amara. Indeed, all tidings of the
Mesopotamian invading force had ceased; and whether it had retired,
whether it still hung on to the banks of the River Tigris, what its
fortunes were now, were withheld from them.
"If we don't get out soon there won't be an Englishman left in the whole
of Mesopotamia," Philip grumbled one day during their long and tedious
imprisonment, when he was perhaps a trifle bilious, and feeling out of
sorts and out of temper. "Everything's wrong".
And Geoff had grinned at him, an irritating grin, which had roused the
irate Philip to a state of anger which set him stuttering, and which
caused him to clench those powerful fists of his--made powerful by the
exercises he and Geoff practised. But just as suddenly as his cheeks had
flamed with anger, just as quickly as he had allowed natural vexation
and irritation to get the better of him, Philip's better sense, his
honest heart, his real affection for his chum, caused him suddenly to
beam upon him.
"I'm in a rotten humour," he told him, "just the sort of humour in which
a fellow grumbles, asks 'What's the good of anything?' and grouses
'Nuffin'."
"I've felt the same often enough," Geoff told him, "and I dare say
you've known it, and have seen what a nasty sulky beast I could be. You
see, fellows chained up like this, close together in a cell, get to know
all there is that's worth knowing about a chap--all the good side, you
know."
"And a precious deal of the bad side too," grinned Philip. "Trust a
campaign to show up a man from every point of view. People say that
aboard-ship life is the most trying of existences; but I imagine that
one of those Arctic Expeditions of ours, when a hundred men, perhaps,
are bottled up in winter quarters for months together, must try officers
and men to the last extremity, must prove their good feelings and
temper, and must bring them back to safety comrades for life--friends
who will never be forgotten."
Doubtless the fact of hearing nothing of the Expeditionary Force did try
the nerves and the temper of the two prisoners in their cell extremely.
Yet what mattered such a trial now? Now that they were out of their
prison; now that they had dropped from the window of the Governor's
quarters; now that they had worsted that odious fellow, von
Hildemaller--that mass of perspiring flesh and fat, that ogling,
cunning, scheming German?
"Jingo!" Philip kept on repeating, as he and Geoff crouched by the wall,
and then let go a chuckle. "To think that we've done that von what's his
name--Hilde something--"
"Maller," grunted Geoff, sniffing his contempt of the fellow. "And now?"
"That's what I keep asking, now?"
"Well, we've the whole of Mesopotamia," Geoff told him a little
politely, a little icily in fact.
"Right oh! Then all we've got to do is to choose some spot in it. Of
course one naturally selects a part now occupied by our fellows."
Naturally enough that was the choice which any British officer or man
would have made under similar circumstances. But where was the
Expeditionary Force which had sailed from India, and which had fought
its way by now into the heart of Mesopotamia? Unbeknown to these two
young subalterns, it had driven a path up the banks of the River Tigris
towards Kut-el-Amara--some hundred and fifty miles above Amara
itself--and well on the road to Bagdad--the Mesopotamian Mecca, a city,
almost a holy city in the eyes of the Arabs of that part, to which their
eyes were attracted far more than to Constantinople. Driven from
Nasiriyeh, from Basra, from every place down-stream on the banks of the
Shatt-el-Arab, of the Tigris and of the Euphrates, the Turks,
nevertheless, had not abandoned Mesopotamia. They were in strong-force
at Kut, in prepared positions, engineered, sketched, and arranged by
German instructors. And there, to be precise, some seven miles to the
east of Kut, the enemy took up his position astride the River Tigris,
extending his trenches to some six miles from the left bank of the
river. Yet, in spite of those deep-dug trenches which gave such security
from shell-fire, in spite of wired entanglements which might have
aroused the envy of Germans in Flanders and Poland, notwithstanding
preparations made without haste and hurry, and over a country which gave
wonderful assistance, the enemy was defeated.
The same dash, the same almost reckless bravery of the British and
Indians, the same natural, friendly rivalry between those two races of
soldiers, sent them forward against the Turkish trenches like an
avalanche, caused them to turn the position, and rapidly effected the
capture of Kut-el-Amara. Not only that, it effected at the same moment
the capture of the northern end of the Kut-el-Hai, that watercourse
running roughly north and south between the Tigris and the Euphrates
Rivers, and which, unknown to the British, had permitted the Turks to
reinforce their post at Nasiriyeh, and collect that army at Shaiba,
which had threatened the rear of the Expeditionary Force when in the
neighbourhood of Kurnah. It may be said, indeed, that the Expeditionary
Force had now captured a solid wedge of Mesopotamia, a wedge of land
with its base pointing towards Bagdad, its lines of communication
open--for the Tigris allowed of shipping reaching the British force at
Kut as easily and almost as safely as that shipping had been able to
reach Kurnah. For the Tigris was still deep and wide, though not
entirely free of sand-banks. As to the size of this wedge--Nasiriyeh was
secured, Ahwaz, the head of the Persian pipe-line, was in our hands, and
there remained Bagdad alone--a jewel which must have strongly tempted
the British Commanders. An expedition to that city, its capture in fact,
would no doubt result in the crash of Turkish influence in Mesopotamia,
would win over thousands of Arabs now wavering and prepared to join the
side which looked like winning, and would inevitably destroy all German
influence.
For many reasons then Bagdad was a magnet, a magnet which drew the
Expeditionary Force onward. And in the heat of summer, even as Geoff and
Philip were making that adventurous escape, British and Indians were
once more on the move from Kut _en route_ for Bagdad, hoping to capture
the city. Whether such an expedition were justified, whether the risks
of an advance along the River Tigris to the city of Bagdad were out of
proportion to the advantages to be gained, and whether those in command
were fully informed as to the strength of Turkish troops before them,
one cannot venture an opinion, seeing that at this date little
information has been published, little indeed more than the fact that
such an advance took place, and its sequel.
If, however, actual news of our troops in Mesopotamia at this time is
meagre, and if a cloud covers their operations and leaves us in doubt as
to what has actually happened, we have yet left to us news of Geoff and
Philip, and of others who participate in this story. There is, for
instance, the stout, perspiring, and odious von Hildemaller. Boiling
with rage, perspiring indescribably, he leant against that door outside
the quarters of the Turkish governor, mopping his face perpetually with
that red handkerchief, while he gripped the rifle he had seized from one
of the Turkish soldiers, and glared from it towards the Governor.
"And--and--you are fooling me," he shouted at last, when he had got his
breath; for that dash into the courtyard, the blows he had levelled at
the unfortunate jailer, and his race from thence to the hall of the
prison and up those stairs had left him gasping. "What means this?" he
demanded. "You give me free entry into a cell in which these brutes are
imprisoned; you--you--allow them to set upon me, to tie me hand and
foot, to gag me, and now--now--you bring me here to be faced with a door
that is barred and bolted, when you should have taken me to some other
place from which I could have shot down those ruffians."
Of a truth, the Teuton was positively boiling over with wrath,
indignation, and disappointment. Never before, in a somewhat long life,
devoted in these latter years to crafty plotting, had von Hildemaller
been so worsted. Like every other man, he had had his ups and downs to
be sure, his failures and his successes; but of late, since the "All
Highest", since the Kaiser had set his ambitious eye on Turkey, had
ogled the Sultan, brow-beaten his particular adherents, and had gained
the ear of the Young Turk Party, since, in fact, the influence of the
Germans and of Germany had risen to such heights in Turkey, von
Hildemaller had become quite an important person, one to be considered,
an agent of the Kaiser to whom no doors were shut, who claimed entry
anywhere and on any occasion. Yet here, when he had thought to succeed
so easily, when he had planned to add these two British subalterns to
that Douglas Pasha--then in prison--why, see here, the door was banged
in his face, the tables had been turned most distinctly upon him, and
all his plans had been shattered.
"I--it is monstrous!" he shouted, using the native tongue but
indifferently, his words bearing a strong Teutonic accent. "Are you,
too, in the plot? Did you then plan for them to seize me? I--I----"
The poor fellow was stuttering more than ever, his flabby cheeks were
positively shaking, while his whole person was quivering. It looked
almost as if he would have thrown himself upon the Governor, that other
stout man staring back at him now in frightened manner. No doubt, too,
had von Hildemaller had breath sufficient for the task, he would have
vented his wrath upon the Turk promptly. But, as it was, he cast the
rifle on the stone steps and sent it clattering down into the hall
below. Then, wobbling badly, his knees shaking after such unusual
exertion, perspiring still in horrible fashion, and displaying that
particularly close-cropped pate, he went off after the rifle, stumbling
down the steps and into the hall, and from there out into the open. It
was almost dark then, and for a while he stood still, blowing heavily,
and enjoying the evening breeze as it played about his heated features.
Then he gave vent to a faint and somewhat subdued whistle, and repeated
it a moment later. A figure slid up from some dark corner and stood
beside him.
"Master," he said, "you whistled."
"Whistled? Yes, twice, and you were not there at the first summons,"
snarled von Hildemaller, delighted to have someone else upon whom he
could turn his wrath and vexation. "How now? Where are these prisoners?
You saw them escape from the place? You followed them, eh?"
"Prisoners?" said the man, startled, stepping back a pace or two, so
that a gleam of light, flashing through the open door of the prison from
a lantern which had now been lighted, fell upon him. "Prisoners?
But----"
"But--prisoners, fool!" the German retorted, eyeing the man severely as
he stood in the lamp-light. "You did not follow them then; you allowed
them to escape without troubling?"
His tones were even more angry as he watched the man; while those beams
of light, as they fell upon the German's companion, showed the features
of that same rascal who had answered his signal in the Bazaar at Bagdad
at that time when Major Joe Douglas had accosted von Hildemaller.
Without a shade of doubt, indeed, this Turk was the ruffian who was in
the hire of the German, who was ready to carry out any piece of villainy
for him. Esbul knew it; that old Jew whom Douglas Pasha had questioned
in the Bazaar at Bagdad knew it too; while the cautious yet seemingly
unsuspicious Douglas Pasha knew it better, knew it so well that he had
made that hurried departure from Bagdad, knew it better still now,
seeing that it was thanks to this rascal, and the German, that he lay in
prison.
No doubt, had the man not been of such great use to von Hildemaller,
the latter would then and there have vented all his wrath and vexation
on him; but if the German were angry he was still not so furious that he
was altogether bereft of common sense and caution. Caution, indeed, was
something which had helped the Teuton to be successful; it was his
hard-headed common sense and cunning which had made of him such a
plotter, and now that same common sense caused his anger to evaporate.
In any case he became calm, and stood for a moment or so considering
deeply.
"Listen, my friend!" he said at last, his tone completely changed. "You
did well. You sat here, you tell me, and heard nothing. Then I will tell
you what has happened. The two prisoners we sought are gone--escaped
within a few minutes of my gaining the prison; they are nowhere to be
found, and we must seek them. Tell me now, you who are clever in such
matters, supposing you to be in their place, and to have shaken yourself
free of the prison, whither would you turn? What quarter?"
The man answered him promptly, without a thought it seemed.
"Bagdad, Master."
"And nowhere else?"
"And nowhere else," the man repeated.
"Then in Bagdad you believe that we shall trace them?"
"I do, Master, and the sooner we can make our way there the better."
Early on the following morning, in fact, von Hildemaller could have been
discovered in a shaky old country vehicle, drawn by a dilapidated pony,
being rattled over an incredibly rough road close to that city. Perched
on the driving-seat was the rascal whom he had encountered outside the
prison on the previous evening. A picturesque rascal to be sure, for
there was nothing about this man which denoted his calling. Very soon
they entered the gates, and were swallowed up amidst the narrow,
tortuous streets of the city, and finally gained the quarters habitually
occupied by the German. Yet we have to recount the fact that, quietly as
these two had entered Bagdad, unostentatiously as they had made their
way through the streets, much as they had sought to escape observation,
yet one at least had watched their coming. It was that tall, skinny,
bony Jew, who sat, as ever, it seemed, cross-legged on his stall,
perched like a bird of evil omen above those embroidered goods, the sale
of which appeared to trouble him so little. His beady eyes marked the
passing of that clattering vehicle and recognized, while they appeared
to be looking at nothing, the picturesque rascal who drove it, and took
in in a single fleeting glance the fat features of the German.
"So, that man--the one who tracked Douglas Pasha----" he muttered,
appearing to address the words rather to the embroidered goods he had
for disposal than to any particular person. "Coffee, boy!" he called,
clapping his hands. "Coffee, that I may sip it and think."
Almost motionless, merely his eyelids blinking, while occasionally his
long fingers played over the wares on his stall, the Jew waited for the
coffee, and then, taking the cup with a deliberation peculiar to him,
lifted it slowly to his lips and sipped it thoughtfully. It was at such
times, too, that this curious old man, who had such a strong liking for
Douglas Pasha, looked above the rim of the egg-shaped cup and cast his
glance over the Bazaar. It masked his movements, as it were, and that
cup disguised the fact, from any who might be looking, that he was
interested in his immediate surroundings. Not that the man saw anything
in particular, merely walls, merely long shadows cast by a brilliant
sun, and stalls upon which other figures rested much as he
did--motionless figures, men apparently indifferent to their success in
business, for not an effort did they make to attract the attention of
would-be purchasers and extract money from them.
"So!" he muttered again into the coffee-cup. "That man is back, and I
have heard tales of a journey to another prison. Perhaps Esbul may give
information; perhaps he followed. Who knows? We will wait till the
evening."
And wait the old man did, placidly, with not the smallest show of
impatience, till the shadows lengthened, till dusk fell over the Bazaar,
and until other merchants were closing their places of business. Then,
having seen his stall shut by the boy who did jobs small and large for
him, the Jew tottered away from the place, dived into a narrow alley,
and wriggled his way to a house at some distance. Entering this from a
courtyard at the back, he rapped twice with his stick on the floor, and
waited for an answer.
"What then?" a voice asked cautiously from the top of a flight of
stairs, "Who is that?"
"A friend!" the Jew replied, and ascended promptly. Gaining a room at
the top of the flight of stairs he sat down on a divan, and then turned
to the man who stood before him.
"So they have come--that German and the ruffian," he said. "You saw
them, Esbul?"
Esbul nodded.
"I saw them; they passed to their old quarters."
"And maybe you know from whence?" the Jew asked.
"Not so," Esbul told him. "They slipped from the city unbeknown to me,
and were gone while I was sleeping. But--but--I have a feeling that they
were bent on business which concerned my master, or which concerned
those two who were captured with me at Nasiriyeh."
There was silence for some long while in that room, for the Jew was not
given to much talking. Instead, he ate his humble evening meal slowly
and thoughtfully, gazing at the opposite wall as if he could read there
the mystery of Douglas Pasha's whereabouts, of the prison in fact where
von Hildemaller had caused him to be sent. Let it be remembered, too,
that though this Jew had means of learning much of what was happening,
had learned, indeed, that Geoff and Phil had been incarcerated somewhere
outside the city, yet he had no knowledge of the German's movements, did
not dream, in fact, that von Hildemaller had so recently visited the
place where they were held, and did not suspect his mission. But he
guessed that the Teuton's exit from the city and return had something to
do with Douglas Pasha, though it might not be directly. He hated this
German--hated all Germans in fact--for, Armenian Jew though he was,
Turkey was his country, and, as a wise man, he realized that Germany's
interest in it was not disinterested. But the subject of Douglas Pasha
touched him even more deeply, for he was devoted to the Englishman, had
received much kindness from him, had, in days past, to thank him for an
act which saved his life--a deed of bravery which might have cost
Douglas Pasha his own quite easily. That was the secret of the Jew's
attachment to this British officer, the secret of his solicitude for his
safety, and part of the reason for his detestation of von Hildemaller.
He turned after a while, solemnly and slowly, upon Esbul, who meantime
had waited for him to speak, with too great a respect for the aged Jew
to disturb him.
"My son," he said, and the beady old eyes flickered wisely at Esbul,
"there has been a deep plot hatching in these parts, and the German has
been weaving a web to cast about these British people. As I, a good
Armenian Jew and subject of the Sultan--though he has sorely ill-treated
us Armenians--as I hate this German, so he loathes all those British. He
fears the influence of Douglas Pasha amongst the Turks; when there was
no war he feared him, for even against their will our Turkish pashas
could not help having a liking for the Briton, while for this Teuton
they had nothing but contempt. Thus von Hildemaller was jealous of
Douglas Pasha, feared his strength, and made plans to rid Bagdad and
Mesopotamia of him. The chance came when war burst over the land, and
the German seized it. Yet, surrounded by enemies as he was, Douglas
Pasha evaded the danger for a while, evaded it till the hirelings of von
Hildemaller tracked him down and cast their net about him. Then, but
for those Turkish friends of our master, but for the news of Douglas
Pasha's capture which I sent swiftly to them, the German would have
killed him. Against the wishes of the Turks he could do no such thing,
and therefore had to be content with his imprisonment. Now see what
follows: the ward of Douglas Pasha is captured also, and with him a
companion. The news comes to the ears of this scheming German. He can do
no worse, for the time being at any rate, to Douglas Pasha himself, but
he can hurt him through this young soldier--this young officer who is
dear to him. Who knows? It may be that his journey outside the city was
to secure the person of young Geoffrey Keith. Who knows? But it is
likely."
"More than likely," Esbul told him respectfully.
"That we shall learn in time," the Jew answered. "I have ways of
gathering news unknown to you--unknown to anyone, in fact. We shall
learn. But you, Esbul, in the meantime you will set a watch upon these
people, will disguise yourself and hover about the streets of the city,
and perchance it may be that information will come to you sooner than to
me, in which case you will be lucky."
Esbul, indeed, might consider himself an extremely well-favoured
individual if it turned out that he was more successful in unearthing
the secret doings of von Hildemaller than was Benshi, this aged Jew,
this extraordinarily silent man who hovered the day long over his
embroidered wares, and seemed to take no interest in things outside his
narrow stall, and to possess no energy for doing so; for, indeed, Benshi
was a deep, discreet, and clever individual--one to whom tales came in
the most uncanny manner, to whom reports of doings outside the city of
Bagdad were sent almost before they reached the Governor's palace. And
yet the exact whereabouts of Douglas Pasha was hidden from him; while
beyond the fact that Geoff and Philip had been imprisoned--a fact
communicated by Esbul--he had no knowledge of them.
Donning a garb which was calculated to deceive easily any who might meet
him, Esbul slipped out of the house that evening and plunged into the
intricacies of the thoroughfares of the city. No need for him to seek
for the quarters of von Hildemaller, for they were already known to him,
and no need, therefore, to ask questions. But arrived at the house--one
detached from its fellows, standing aloof and alone in a compound--there
was little to encourage him to wait, nothing to prove that the German
and the arch-scoundrel he employed were in residence. Not a light
flickered from the windows, not a gleam came through a crack in the
shutters; the place was clad in darkness, while not a sound came from
it.
"But yet it may be that they are there, these crafty fellows," thought
Esbul; "we'll see, we'll investigate the premises carefully."
To clamber over the containing wall was an easy matter, while the drop
on the far side was nothing. With stealthy steps the Armenian passed
round the house, squinting in through keyholes, staring at the shutters,
seeking for something which might prove of interest. Yet, though he
spent a good half-hour in the compound, not a sound reached his ears,
and nothing rewarded his efforts.
Meanwhile, one may wonder what had happened to Geoff and Philip after
their adventurous escape from the Governor's quarters of the prison.
"Where now, then?" asked Philip, darkness having fallen completely. "I
say, Geoff, I'm sorry about that fall of yours and the fruit, for the
supply I've brought is precious scanty; let's finish it now, and then
consider matters."
It was, indeed, rather an unfortunate thing that the breaking of the
rope and Geoff's fall upon the cushions--which they had had forethought
enough to drop out of the Governor's window--had resulted in the pulping
of the supply of fruit he was carrying on his person. Yet, if they were
deprived of that, they had gained something immeasurably greater, for
they had gained their liberty.
"And mean to keep it now," Geoff was whispering to himself, as they
crouched beside the wall of the prison. "But what to do, where to go,
and how to fare now that we are free?"
It was, indeed, rather a problem, and yet not so difficult after all;
for, consider, Bagdad, they knew--they had learned from their
jailer--was within a day's march of them, and Bagdad was just as much a
magnet to these two young subalterns as it was to any Arab or any Turk
in Mesopotamia--just as much a magnet, indeed, as it was to the British
Expeditionary Force then fighting its way towards the city from
Kut-el-Amara.
"Of course it's got to be done; we've got to get to Bagdad," Geoff
exclaimed, when they had finished their small supply of fruit. "Next
question is--in what direction?"
Philip scratched his head; it was, indeed, a problem which floored him.
"Which direction, eh?" he muttered. "Yes, that does want deciding, for
I've no notion."
"But here's an idea--a good idea, too," said Geoff. "Naturally enough
the prison must be on some road, else how would one get to it? How could
we have been driven here?"
"Brilliant! Of course, naturally enough--on a road. We look for it."
"Quite so; we look for it, and then----"
"Then we march along it, eh?" Philip told him cheerfully.
"Which direction?" asked Geoff satirically. "Supposing it runs west and
east, do we turn west or east? And if north and south, which way,
please, Philip?"
It was Philip's turn again to cogitate, to scratch his head even harder,
and to wonder. It made him quite irritable and angry when he discovered
how hopeless the situation really was; and then, seizing upon a
brilliant idea, he almost gave vent to a shout of triumph.
"Of course; easy as smoking; we just get on to the road and wait for
folks to come along it."
"Brilliant!" Geoff scoffed at him. "People don't travel so often during
the night in these parts, but at any rate it's the only solution of our
difficulties. We'll get on to the road and see what happens."
What actually happened was that, after a while, voices were heard in the
neighbourhood of the prison; for by then Geoff and his friend had passed
round the place, had found the road, and had sat down beside it. They
heard the rattle of wheels somewhere on the road, and the ring of
horses' hoofs. Creeping nearer, they heard those voices more distinctly,
and after a little while, getting nearer still, Geoff was convinced that
it was von Hildemaller himself who was talking.
"Go easy," he told Philip; "keep as far away as we can and listen to
them. Von Hildemaller's in a nasty temper, I expect, and is quitting the
prison. There! He's mounting into some sort of Turkish vehicle, and he's
about to drive off. What's that he's saying? To Bagdad?"
"To Bagdad!" exclaimed Philip in an excited and eager whisper. "That's
where we're going."
"I hope so, certainly," agreed Geoff.
"Then why not accompany our dear friend Hildemaller?" asked Philip,
starting forward.
"Accompany him!" exclaimed Geoff; "you're fooling."
"Never hung on the back of a trap before?" said Philip immediately. "I
have. Come along; let's get this German fellow to give us a lift to our
destination."
The young subaltern had never given expression to a more brilliant
proposal. Geoff seized upon it on the instant, and the two, running
swiftly across the road in their stockinged feet--for they still kept
their boots tucked close to their bodies--were within a few feet of the
rickety chaise in which the German was riding. As it drove off,
clattering heavily over the rough road, they raced up behind it, and,
unknown to the German, clung on behind and accompanied him towards
Bagdad.