A FOOL’S ERRAND.
“Really,” said Cyril, “words fail me to express my gratitude. The
conspicuous success which has crowned your kind efforts would alone be
sufficient----”
“Say, Count,” broke in Mr Hicks, “don’t make us squirm ourselves right
away through the floor. Mr Mansfield is not to blame, any way, for I
despatched him and told him to go ahead, and I acted as I thought best
for you in my professional capacity, sir.”
“Professional capacity be hanged!” said Cyril, sharply. “What does
your professional capacity make of the result of this precious
expedition? Nice little encouragement for the patient, eh? Hearten him
up a bit, I suppose? You and Mansfield are both too clever for me,
Hicks. To the ordinary mind it would have occurred that in the
peculiar circumstances of the case my only hope was to go there myself
and take the Queen by surprise, but you have knocked all chance of
that on the head.”
“But, Count,” ventured Mansfield, “the lady said it would be quite
useless for you to go, because you would not be admitted.”
“Did you ever know me baffled yet in a thing I meant to do, Mansfield?
Fräulein von Staubach and I are old friends.”
“Well, Count, she has promised to mention your name to the Queen at
the earliest opportunity. I will ride up to Brutli again to-morrow,
and try and arrange with her to let you know the moment she has done
it. But she said it would certainly not be for a fortnight.”
“A fortnight?” Cyril’s irritation subsided suddenly, as a new idea
appeared to strike him. “Mansfield, I want to know exactly what she
told you.”
Mansfield cudgelled his brains, and, aided by a stringent
cross-examination, succeeded in recalling very faithfully the
conversation which had taken place between Fräulein von Staubach and
himself. When he had come to the end, Cyril smiled gently.
“Since you two have gone to work so ingeniously to spoil my plans with
regard to the Queen,” he said, “I shall put business before pleasure
once more, and devote this fortnight to looking up the Great Princess
of the Beni Ismail.”
“Great Jehoshaphat!” cried Mr Hicks, in consternation. “You talk of
setting off on a desert journey right now, Count, when you’re down
sick? A little ride in the cars to Beyrout, now, would bring you round
a bit, I guess, but a wild goose chase into the mouth of hell after a
female that no one has ever seen--no, sir! You may bet your bottom
dollar----”
“That I go? Quite so. You needn’t come, you know, Hicks. If Mansfield
is willing to relinquish the right of private judgment, I’ll take him,
to punish him for the mischief he has done, but there must be no more
interference with my plans for any reason whatever.”
“You bet!” said Mr Hicks, energetically. “But you’ll have to conclude
to take me as part of the outfit, Count. Your physician extraordinary
won’t quit until he’s kicked out. And since you’re set on this piece
of foolishness, I suppose I may as well hand you a document which was
left for you to-day, but when Mr Mansfield came back and we began upon
this palaver, I forgot it.”
Cyril took the letter, which was written on rough native paper, and
read it through carefully. “How did you get hold of this, Hicks?” he
asked at last.
“Brought by a blind Arab with a book under his arm, Count. ‘From the
Great Princess,’ he said, as he handed it to me. He mentioned that he
was a Protestant, and seemed to incline to loaf around and ask
affectionately after the Churches of America, but I was in a hurry,
and fired him out.”
“My dear Hicks! Why not have humoured the poor wretch, and kept him in
talk? He would have been able to give me just the information I want.”
“That is so, Count, and that’s why I invited him to vanish.”
“Won’t do, Hicks. You’ll have to find him again now.”
“I guess so,” said Mr Hicks resignedly. “Well, I reckon I’ll appeal to
our rackety friend Mahmud Fadil. He makes out to be acquainted with
all the shady characters in the city. But I hope the lady is kindly
disposed towards you, Count?”
“Not exactly. She warns me not to meddle with her subjects or their
territory, on pain of an appeal to the Powers. Strange that she should
have picked up that idea, isn’t it? But her scribe writes French, so
very likely he is an Armenian from Czarigrad, full of the latest
European notions. Her seal is Arabic, you see, but it has only ‘I, the
Queen of the Desert,’ on it, no name.”
In fulfilment of the task imposed upon him by Cyril, Mr Hicks set out
the next morning to seek the help of Mahmud Fadil, who had no
difficulty in identifying from his description the person of whom he
was in search.
“I know him,” he said. “It is Yeshua, a dog of a Bedawi who professes
to have become a Christian, and is in the pay of the English ladies
who have the schools.”
“Could you manage to lay your hand on him?” asked Mr Hicks.
“You want him seized--put out of the way? Oh yes, it can be done, of
course, but it will be rather expensive, on account of the English
ladies. These wretched missionaries fly to their consuls on the
slightest pretext.”
“I guess I don’t just want him wiped out,” said Mr Hicks meditatively.
“A little quiet talk with him is all I ask. And if your soldiers could
be brought to understand, sir, that a small extra present would pass
between us if they carried the business through without fuss and
without hurting the gentleman’s feelings, it might obviate any
difficulty with the consul.”
Mahmud Fadil acquiesced in the proposal with some disappointment. He
had anticipated the handling of a considerable sum of money, a certain
proportion of which would naturally stick to his own fingers in the
process, but he gave the necessary orders, keenly conscious that half
a loaf is better than no bread. Accordingly, Cyril’s quarters were
invaded, shortly after darkness had fallen, by several file of
soldiers, dragging with them the blind man, who offered no resistance
beyond protesting against the illegality of his arrest. Mr Hicks was
on the look-out, and after reassuring the owners of the house, and
dismissing the soldiers with the reward agreed upon, led the prisoner
into Cyril’s room.
“Fear not, O father of a book,” he said in Arabic; “no harm shall
befall thee. Tell the Prince of the Jews who thou art.”
“My lord’s servant is Yeshua the son of Ishak,” answered the blind
man, turning his sightless eyes in the direction of the divan on which
Cyril was lying, “and he goes hither and thither among the tents of
his brethren to tell them the words of Life.”
“Was it you who brought me the letter from the Princess of the Beni
Ismail?” asked Cyril. Mr Hicks translated the question.
“My lord’s servant was sojourning a week ago in the tents of the Beni
Ismail, and their sheikh asked him to carry a message to the Prince of
the Jews. The tribe fear to enter the town, lest the Roumis should
seize and imprison them.”
“Then you did not see the Princess--I mean, she did not give you the
letter?”
“Nay, my lord, how should such a one as Yeshua ibn Ishak be admitted
to the presence of the Great Princess? One of her women had given the
paper to the sheikh.”
“I see. Did you find your way here from Sitt Zeynab alone?”
“Certain of the tribe brought my lord’s servant on his way for a part
of the distance. After that he knew the road.”
“Good. Will you guide me to the spot where they left you?”
“God forbid! Would my lord have his servant betray his brethren?”
“But I don’t want to do your brethren any harm,” said Cyril
impatiently. “I am not a Roumi. I am only anxious to make a treaty
with them.”
“Nay, my lord, thy servant cannot reveal their secret. They have
trusted him, and if he failed them they would blaspheme the religion
of the Lord Jesus.”
“I can hand you over to the Roumis, and have you thrown into prison,
if you refuse to answer me. Do you know this?”
“My lord must do as he will with his servant,” said the blind man.
“Oh, Count, he’s too plucky to be threatened,” said Mansfield
indignantly. “Why not see if he will take a message back to his
sheikh?”
“I have no intention of eating him,” returned Cyril. “Well, Yeshua ibn
Ishak, will you find out your sheikh and tell him that I wish for a
friendly meeting with the Princess? These two _khawajas_ shall come
with me, and we will bring one servant each, but no soldiers. I desire
peace with the Beni Ismail, not war, and if he will bring me to Sitt
Zeynab it will be for the good of all his tribe for ever.”
“But the Great Princess will never consent to talk with my lord.”
“Perhaps not; but she could send her scribe, or she might even talk
with me through a curtain. Will you take the message?”
“My lord’s servant will carry the word, but there is no likelihood
that the sheikh will consent. The stranger must not come into the land
of the Beni Ismail.”
“Time will show. Good evening, then. Mansfield, see that the man has
something to eat, and give him a few piastres if you think it will
make him feel more kindly towards us. How long do you say it will take
to get an answer to the message, Hicks?”
“Well, Count, I guess the sheikh has some of his men cached not so
very far from the city, in case our blind friend has any news to
despatch. Would you incline to have him shadowed?”
“No; he would find it out, and the discovery would destroy his rather
shaky confidence in us. Suppose you jot down a few of the things we
shall need for the journey. I expect to start the day after
to-morrow.”
“Well, sir, there’s nothing like assurance, any way,” said Mr Hicks,
sitting down at Mansfield’s table and appropriating his writing
materials. “Do you calculate to take tents with you?”
“He’s a good fellow, Count,” said Mansfield, returning. “He would not
take any money, because he said the Mission provided for his needs. I
looked at his Bible in raised type, and he told me how astonished the
Arabs were to see a blind man read. He seems to have some thrilling
experiences to describe, if only I could understand his English; but
it is rather sketchy.”
“You had better write an account of your interesting friend to Lady
Caerleon. I know that Syria is one of her many favourite
mission-fields. But while you are striking up an acquaintance with
this picturesque character, here is Mr Hicks doing your work. Tents,
did you say, Hicks? One small tent for the three of us. This
expedition is not going to be a picnic.”
“You bet!” murmured Mr Hicks disconsolately, as he resigned his place
to Mansfield, who wondered even more than he did at the calm
confidence with which Cyril continued to make arrangements for a
journey which neither of his companions believed would ever be
undertaken. But his foresight was truer than theirs. When Mansfield
returned the next day from visiting the bazaars, the citadel and the
walls, the ruins of the Great Mosque, and other lions of Damascus,
under the guidance of a Jewish youth, he found the blind Bedawi
sitting outside the house and waiting for him. After puzzling out the
meaning of Yeshua’s broken English, he entered Cyril’s room somewhat
doubtfully.
“The blind man has come back, Count. He says that the sheikh consents
to escort you to Sitt Zeynab, but you must bring no servants with you,
only Mr Hicks and myself.”
“Very well; but in that case the sheikh must only have two of his own
men with him. It’s not so much as a precaution, for of course the
whole tribe might be hiding behind the first sandhill, but just to
show him that he can’t ride roughshod over me.”
“But Yeshua begged me to warn you not to go, Count. He says the Beni
Ismail have never allowed a stranger to reach Sitt Zeynab yet, and he
is afraid they mean to hold you as a hostage.”
“He doesn’t seem to realise that it is what I mean, and not what they
mean, that will come to pass. Let Yeshua arrange with the sheikh where
he is to meet us, Mansfield, and if it is out in the desert, tell him
to be waiting for us himself by the cemetery wall as soon as the gates
are opened to-morrow morning, that he may guide us to the right spot.
We will bring nothing but what we can carry on our own horses. The
tent must be given up.”
“I guess you’re real set on this mad business, Count,” said Mr Hicks,
as Mansfield left the room.
“That’s just what I have been trying to impress upon you for two whole
days, Hicks.”
But in spite of this solemn assurance, and the hasty preparations
which occupied the rest of the day, neither Mr Hicks nor Mansfield
really believed in the expedition until they found themselves riding
through the eastern gate of Damascus in the dawn of the following
morning. To all appearance they were bound only on a short excursion.
The sheikh had agreed to furnish water and desert fare for the
travellers, and each man carried a bag of corn for his horse, together
with an iron peg and a rope for tethering purposes. A pair of
capacious saddlebags, containing the smallest possible allowance of
additional raiment and toilet necessaries, and a large _abba_ or cloak
of coarse cotton, rolled up tightly in front of the saddle, completed
the equipment of each. To Mahmud Fadil alone among those in authority
had the secret of their journey been confided, and his silence was
secured in the only effectual way, by means of a present and a
promise. The melancholy Paschics had been furnished with instructions
in view of all the possible complications of political affairs that
suggested themselves to Cyril’s mind, and placed in charge of two
telegrams, one for the Chevalier Goldberg and one for Lord Caerleon,
which were not to be despatched until the adventurers had fairly
started. Mr Hicks had been permitted to send a communication to his
paper, in which he dealt with the expedition in terms of such enticing
obscurity and tantalising reticence as to suggest that the whole
solution of the Palestine question hung on his being lost to sight in
the Syrian desert for a fortnight or more. Mansfield’s personal
preparations were not extensive, for he did little beyond writing a
letter to Lord Caerleon, which was only to be posted in case he did
not return from the journey.
Outside the gate was the camping-ground of the caravans from Baghdad,
with its hundreds of knee-haltered camels, and its bronzed Arabs
bargaining and quarrelling in a hopeless _patois_ over the goods piled
up round their rough tents. Then came the dismal ride through the
native burying-ground, filled with the ruinous and half-open vaults of
the Christians on the one hand and the fallen tombstones of the Jews
on the other, and when this had been passed, the form of Yeshua could
be distinguished, waiting faithfully under the walnut-trees
overhanging the wall of the Protestant cemetery. After the usual
salutations had been exchanged, Cyril rode ahead with the blind man,
and Mr Hicks and Mansfield found themselves side by side.
“What is it you’re afraid of?” asked Mansfield all at once, observing
that his companion looked back apprehensively from time to time.
“Well, I must say I’m glad to have got the boss out of the city
without a fight, Mr Mansfield. There is an elderly military character
who’s been real pressing in his inquiries after him each day since we
came, and I guess his intentions are not healthy. I interviewed him on
behalf of the boss, but when I found that my friend did the general
utility business for the Princess of Dardania, and had something big
on hand, you bet his messages reached me and stopped there. The
language he made use of yesterday when I told him the Count was sick
yet was remarkably free, and he didn’t see fit to cool down until I
just had him into the yard and showed him a little fancy shooting.
Guess he won’t try the fire-eating tip again with me, after seeing me
print my initials on the wall in bullets, but I don’t mind telling you
I’ve been real scared lest he should be fooling round somewhere on the
street this morning and meet the boss.”
“But you don’t think the Count would fight him?”
“You bet your life he would, and paint the town red with his vital
fluid, too, if he was in his proper form. But he’s sick and strung-up
both, and I don’t care for the risk.”
“Isn’t it wonderful how well he sits his horse?” asked Mansfield,
looking at Cyril as he rode in front.
“That’s what I tell you, he’s strung-up for this job. He has something
big in his eye that I don’t see. I must figure it out.”
Mr Hicks relapsed into silence, pondering busily the problem he had
set himself, and Mansfield did not disturb his meditations as they
rode through the fruit-gardens and walnut-groves surrounding the city,
and then across the bare fields, populous just now with camels
belonging to friendly Arabs. The tribesmen were encamped in the
neighbourhood of the town for the double purpose of obtaining their
annual store of corn from the farmers, and allowing their camels the
luxury of grazing upon the stubble, which the peasants did not resent,
since it helped to clear the fields for the ploughing which would take
place when the winter rains were over. A little farther, and the signs
of cultivation became more rare, one or two villages were passed, each
with its belt of fertile soil, and then the desert itself came into
view--not a wide flat expanse of sand, but a region of stony hills and
rugged valleys, with here and there a patch of coarse grass or
starved-looking bushes. The blind man, feeling the way with the staff
he carried, seemed never at a loss to discover the track, which was
hardly distinguishable even to the eye, and at length, on rounding the
shoulder of a hillock in no way more remarkable than the rest, he
turned to Cyril and remarked--
“This is the place where the sheikh will meet my lord.”
“Then he is late,” said Cyril, looking round.
“Nay, my lord, the Beni Ismail will not show themselves until they are
satisfied that the _khawajas_ are their friends.” He raised his voice
in a shrill cry, and presently a head appeared, peeping suspiciously
round a rock at some distance. Informed of this, Yeshua repeated his
call, and presently three Arabs made their appearance from different
directions, each man leading his horse. The blind man went forward to
meet them, and an animated colloquy ensued, out of earshot of the
travellers.
“I don’t quite like the look of this,” said Cyril. “Is our blind
friend stipulating for his share of the spoils?”
“Oh no, Count,” said Mansfield; “he’s trying to get them to swear not
to hurt us. He told me he would. The poor beggar has cottoned to me
rather,” he added shamefacedly. “Yesterday I went to see the mission
with which he is connected, and the ladies told him, and he was
awfully pleased.”
“Well, don’t be ashamed of your good deeds,” said Cyril. “We shall
both be grateful for them when they have saved all our lives.”
Presently, with a beaming face, the blind man brought the sheikh
forward, and having introduced him to Cyril, took his leave,
whispering to Mansfield as he passed.
“They will not hurt you, _Khawaja_. They have sworn it on the Holy
Book.”
He turned back in the direction of Damascus, and before disappearing
among the sandhills, paused to hold up his book as a reminder to the
Arabs. The sheikh, who had been scanning Cyril’s face with an interest
which he tried in vain to dissemble, asked him through Mr Hicks
whether he would prefer to rest for a while or to proceed at once, and
on his choosing to push on, made a sign to his men, who mounted their
horses, one of them riding ahead as a scout.
In this way the three adventurers began a strange journey, the novelty
of which did not prevent it from palling upon them very quickly.
Sometimes the desert was hilly and rugged, sometimes it was flat and
sandy, but it was always arid, sunny, and treeless. The society of the
sheikh and his followers was as monotonous as their native scenery.
They made it evident that they preferred to keep entirely to
themselves, riding together in advance, and never, if they could help
it, exchanging a word with their unwelcome guests. When a halt for
food or rest became necessary, they showed the same anxiety not to
associate with them, seating themselves on the opposite side of the
fire, if there was one, and when there was none, taking shelter behind
their horses. At first Cyril made many determined efforts to induce
them to talk, with the help of Mr Hicks as interpreter, but in vain.
None of them would give him any information as to the extent of the
territory claimed by the tribe, their ruler or her capital, the
probable length of the journey, or the direction in which they were
going. His failure did not seem to dishearten him, however, although
he ceased his attempts to draw them into conversation, and he
sustained the hardships of the march in a way that was little short of
astonishing. The distance from one well to another, which must be
covered in a single stage, was often so great that the travellers fell
asleep from sheer fatigue as they rode, and on reaching the
halting-place could do nothing but tether their horses and throw
themselves on the ground for a few minutes of precious slumber, even
before thinking of the much-needed evening meal. The food, which
consisted almost exclusively of dry flaps of native bread and a sticky
preparation of pounded dates, was just sufficient to support life; the
water, on the other hand, seemed generally calculated to destroy it.
The small supply of tea which they had contrived to bring with them
was soon exhausted, and Cyril and Mr Hicks qualified the nauseous
draught with brandy; but Mansfield, who was a teetotaller, as became
Lady Philippa’s lover, drank it heroically unmixed. Shelter at night
there was none. The force of habit made the three foreigners creep as
far as possible under the bushes, when there were any, to the derision
of their guides, and they were also sufficiently fastidious to remove
all the most obtrusive pebbles from the spot selected for a bed; but
the large light cloaks that protected them from the dust by day served
also as a covering at night, and each man’s pillow was such as his own
ingenuity could devise from his small stock of possessions.
“It isn’t the grub I mind,” lamented Mansfield one day to Mr Hicks,
when the journey had lasted nearly a week, “nor even having to do
without a bed, but I do detest getting so horribly grimy. I don’t
believe I shall ever be clean again.”
“We’re all in the same boat,” responded Mr Hicks. “I guess some of the
haughty aristocrats that have entertained the boss in their marble
halls would think twice before speaking to him now.”
“He doesn’t seem to mind,” said Mansfield dolefully. “He said this
morning that the ease with which one learned to do without the
refinements of civilisation was a clear proof of the innate savagery
of human nature. Before I came I thought I would bring plenty of soap,
whatever else I had to leave behind, but there’s no chance of using
it. And as for shaving----”
“Well, think how you’ll wallow in the luxuries of an effete
civilisation when you get back to it!” was the sympathetic reply; but
Mansfield was wondering what Philippa would think of him if he
returned to England with a beard, and did not answer. “Guess we’ll all
be as fit as the Arabs if this goes on much longer,” continued Mr
Hicks cheerfully. “You and I are as hard as nails already. The boss
can’t get much thinner, any way, but just look at him! He’s spunkier
every day.”
“Do you know,” said Mansfield, in a sudden burst of confidence, “it
almost makes me feel queer to see him riding on day after day with
that iron face, and not caring a hang for anything. He has been so
ill, you know, and that affair at Jericho---- Sometimes I wonder what
will happen to him if this business smashes up. He might--might--go
mad.”
“Is that so? That notion has struck you too!” Mr Hicks glanced round
at Mansfield as the latter lowered his voice. “But don’t you go
expecting a bust-up. The boss is not taking any. He’s the man to go
fooling round in this desert until the Day of Judgment--sort of a dry
land edition of the Flying Dutchman, so to speak--rather than turn
tail and confess that he’s beaten. I’ve figured out that little
mystery by this time. The boss has planked his whole pie on the table
for this game, and he stands to win everything or go under. _Sabe_?
Say you run across a soldier of fortune. You receive him as a man and
a brother, until you get to know that he has not been above hiring his
sword out to a crowd of pirates. Then you dry up. That’s how it is
with the boss. If he comes to smash now he’s done on account of having
sided with the Jews against his own colour. His world can never
forgive that. But if he succeeds--why, then it’s as certain as things
can be in this uncertain universe that he’ll become a real brand-new,
properly organised, guaranteed by Europe, constitutional prince, with
a part to play that will take all his time and be a thing of joy to
him for ever. Do you guess he’ll let himself be fooled out of that by
any dusky scarecrow of a nigger chieftainess that chooses to work the
political racket and talk big about the Powers? No, sir!”
The march continued, with no diminution of its unpleasantness, and the
travellers began to wonder when it would come to an end. Ordinarily,
so they had understood from Yeshua, it was accomplished in a week; but
to all appearance they were no nearer Sitt Zeynab now than they had
been at the beginning of their journey.
“Guess I wish the desert wasn’t so like itself,” grumbled Mr Hicks to
Mansfield on the eighth day after leaving Damascus. “The hog that Mark
Twain came upon seven times over on the Riffelberg wasn’t a
circumstance to it. I could lave sworn we had passed those sandhills
before.”
“I’ve been thinking so all day,” said Mansfield; “but I had an idea
that the heat and the monotony might be affecting my brain. Let’s ask
the Count what he thinks. I see he is suggesting a halt to the
sheikh.”
They followed Cyril, who had been riding ahead of them as usual, but
had now dismounted, and was walking his horse towards a clump of
bushes. Here he stopped, and appeared to brush away the sand and pick
up something. As they came up, he turned to them, and held out a small
metal match-box for their inspection.
“I buried it at the foot of that bush on the third morning after we
started,” he said. “I suspected some trick of this sort.”