Complete works of hall c.., p.431
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 431
Gordon winced visibly, but only said, “Who is the camel-driver in this instance, sir?”
“A certain Ishmael Ameer, preaching in the great mosque at Alexandria, the cradle of all disaffection.”
“An alim?”
“A teacher of some sort, saying England is the deadly foe of Islam, and must therefore be driven out.”
“Then he is worse than the journalists?”
“Yes; we thought of the viper, forgetting the scorpion.”
“But is it certain he is so dangerous?”
“One of the leaders of his own people has just been here to say that if we let that man go on it will be death to the rule of England in Egypt.”
“The Grand Cadi?”
The Consul-General nodded and then said: “The cunning rogue has a grievance of his own, I find, but what’s that to me? The first duty of a Government is to keep order.”
“I agree,” said Gordon.
“There may be picric acid in prayers as well as in bombs.”
“There may.”
“We have to make these fanatical preachers realise that, even if the onward march of progress is but faintly heard in the sealed vaults of their mosque, civilisation is standing outside the walls with its laws and, if need be, its soldiers.”
“You are satisfied, sir, that this man is likely to lead the poor, foolish people into rapine and slaughter?”
“I recognise a bird by its flight. This is another Mahdi — I see it — I feel it,” said the Consul-General, and his eyes flashed and his voice echoed like a horn.
“You want me to smash the Mahdi?”
“Exactly. Your namesake wanted to smash his predecessor — romantic person, too fond of guiding his conduct by reference to the prophet Isaiah — but he was right in that and the Government was wrong, and the consequence was the massacre you represented to-day.”
“I have to arrest Ishmael Ameer?”
“That’s so. In open riot, if possible, and if not, by means of testimony derived from his sermons in the mosques.”
“Hadn’t we better begin there, sir? — make sure that he is inciting the people to violence?”
“As you please.”
“You don’t forget that the mosques are closed to me as a Christian?”
The Consul-General reflected for a moment and then said, “Where’s Fatimah’s son, Hafiz?”
“With his regiment at Abbassiah.”
“Take him with you. Take two other Moslem witnesses as well.”
“I’m to bring this new prophet back to Cairo?”
“That’s it; bring him here. We’ll do all the rest.”
“What if there should be trouble with the people?”
“There’s a battalion of British soldiers in Alexandria. Keep a force in readiness — under arms night and day.”
“But if it should spread beyond Alexandria?”
“So much the better for you. I mean,” said the Consul-General, hesitating for the first time, “we don’t want bloodshed, but if it must come to that it must, and the eyes of England will be on you. What more can a young man want? Think of yourself” — he put his hand on his son’s shoulder again—” think of yourself as on the eve of crushing England’s enemies and rendering a signal service to Gordon Lord as well. And now go — go up to your General and get his formal consent. My love to Helena! Fine girl, very! She’s the sort of woman who might... yes, women are the springs that move everything in this world. Bid goodbye to your mother and get away. Lose no time. Write to me as soon as you have anything to say. That’s enough for the present. I’m busy. Good day!”
Almost before Gordon had left the library the Consul-General was back at his desk — the stern, saturnine man once more, with a face that seemed to express a mind inaccessible to human emotions of any sort.
“As bright as a light — sees things before one says them,” he said to himself, as Gordon closed the door on going out. “Why have I wasted myself with weaklings so long?”
Gordon kissed his pale-faced mother in the drawing-room and his swarthy foster-mother in the porch, and went back to his quarters in barracks — a rather bare room with bed, desk, and bookcase, many riding boots on a shelf, several weapons of savage warfare on the walls, a dervish’s suit of chain armour with a bullet-hole where the heart of the man had been, a picture of Eton, his old school, and above all, as became the home of a soldier, many photographs of his womankind — his mother with her plaintive smile, Fatimah with her humorous look, and, of course, Helena with her glorious eyes, Helena, Helena, everywhere Helena.
There, taking down the receiver of a telephone, he called up the headquarters of the Egyptian Army and spoke to Hafiz, his foster-brother, now a captain in the native cavalry.
“Is that you, Hafiz?... Well, look here, I want to know if you can arrange to go with me to Alexandria for a day or two?... You can? Good! I wish you to help me to deal with that new preacher, prophet, Mahdi. What’s his name, now?... That’s it — Ishmael Ameer. He has been setting Moslem against Christian, and we’ve got to lay the gentleman by the heels before he gets the poor, credulous people into further trouble.... What do you say?... Not that-kind of man, you think?... No?... You surprise me.... Do you really mean to say?... Certainly; that’s only fair.... Yes, I ought to know all about him... Your uncle?... Chancellor of the University?... I know — El Azhar.... When could I see him?... What day do we go to Alexandria? To-morrow, if possible.... To-night the only convenient time, you think? Well, I promised to dine at the Citadel; but I suppose I must write to Helena.... Oh, needs must when the devil drives, old fellow.... To-night, then?... You’ll come down for me immediately? Good! By-bye!”
With that he rang off and sat down to write a letter.
VI
GORDON LORD loved the Egyptians. Nursed on the knee of an Egyptian woman, speaking Arabic as his mother-tongue, lisping the songs of Arabia before he knew a word of English, Egypt was under his very skin, and the spirit of the Nile and of the desert was in his blood.
Only once a day in his childhood was there a break in his Arab life. That was in the evening about sunset, when Fatimah took him into his father’s library, and the great man with his stern face, who assumed toward him a singularly cold manner, put him through a catechism which was always the same: “Tutor been here to-day, boy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Done your lessons?”
“Yes, sir.”
“English — French — everything?”— “Yes, sir.”
“Say good night to your mother and go to bed.”
Then for a few moments more he was taken into his mother’s boudoir, the cool room with the blinds down to keep out the sun, where the lady with the beautiful, pale face embraced and kissed him, and made him kneel by her side while they said the Lord’s Prayer together in a rustling whisper, like a breeze in the garden. But, after that, off to bed with Hafiz — who, in his Arab caftan and fez, had been looking furtively in at the half-open door — up two steps at a time, shouting and singing in Arabic, while Fatimah, in fear of the Consul-General, cried, “Hush! Be good, now, my sweet eyes!”
In his boyhood, too, he had been half a Mohammedan, going every afternoon to fetch Hafiz home from the kuttab, the school of the mosque, and romping round the sacred place like a little king in stocking feet, until the Sheikh in charge, who pretended as long as possible not to see him, came with a long cane to whip him out, always saying he should never come there again — until to-morrow.
While at school in England he had felt like a foreigner, wearing his silk hat on the back of his head as if it had been a tarboosh, and while at Sandhurst, where he got through his three years more easily — in spite of a certain restiveness under discipline — he had always been looking forward to his Christmas visits home — that is to say, to Cairo.
But at last he came back to Egypt on a great errand, with the expedition that was intended to revenge the death of his heroic namesake, having got his commission by that time, and being asked for by his father’s old friend, Reginald Mannering, who was a colonel in the Egyptian Army. His joy was wild, his excitement delirious; and even the desert marches under the blazing sun and the sky of brass, killing to some of his British comrades, was a long delight to the Arab soul in him.
The first fighting he did, too, was done with an Egyptian by his side. His great chum was a young lieutenant named Ali Awad, the son of a pasha, a bright, intelligent, affectionate young fellow who was intensely sensitive to the contempt of British officers for the quality of the courage of their Egyptian colleagues. During the hurly-burly of the Battle of Omdurman both Gordon and Ali had been eager to get at the enemy, but their Colonel had held them back, saying, “What will your fathers say to me if I allow you to go into a hell like that?” When the dervish lines had been utterly broken, though, and one coffee-coloured demon in chain armour was stealing off with his black banner, the Colonel said, “Now’s your time, boys; show what stuff you are made of; bring me back that flag,” and before the words were out of his mouth the young soldiers were gone.
Other things happened immediately, and the Colonel had forgotten his order when, the battle being over, and the British and Egyptian Army about to enter the dirty and disgusting city of the Caliph, he became aware that Gordon Lord was riding beside him with a black banner in one hand and some broken pieces of horse’s reins in the other.
“Bravo! You’ve got it, then?” said the Colonel.
“Yes, sir,” said Gordon, very sadly, and the Colonel saw that there were tears in the boy’s eyes.
“What’s amiss?” he said, and, looking round, “Where’s Ali?”
Then Gordon told him what had happened. They had captured the dervish and compelled him to give up his spear and rifle, but just as Ali was leading the man into the English lines the demon had drawn a knife and treacherously stabbed him in the back. The boy choked with sobs while he delivered his comrade’s last message: “Say good-bye to the Colonel, and tell him Ali Awad was not a coward. I didn’t let go the Baggara’s horse until he stuck me, and then he had to cut the reins to get away. Show the bits of the bridle to my Colonel and tell him I died faithful. Say my salaams to him, Charlie. I knew Charlie Gordon Lord would stay with me to the end.”
The Colonel was quite broken down, but he only said, “This is no time for crying, my boy,” and a moment afterward, “What became of the dervish?” Then, for the first time, the fighting devil flashed out of Gordon’s eyes, and he answered:
“I killed him like a dog, sir.”
It was the black flag of the Caliph himself which Gordon had taken, and when the Commander-in-Chief sent home his despatch he mentioned the name of the young soldier who had captured it.
From that day onward for fifteen years honours fell thick on Gordon Lord. Being continually on active service, and generally in staff appointments, promotions came quick, so that when he went to South Africa, the graveyard of so many military reputations, in those first dark days of the nation’s deep humiliation, when the very foundations of her army’s renown seemed to be giving way, he was one of the young officers whose gallantry won back England’s fame. Though hot-tempered, impetuous, and liable to frightful errors, he had the imagination of a soldier as well as the bravery that goes to the heart of a nation, so that when in due course, being now full colonel, he was appointed, though so young, Second-in-Command of the Army of Occupation in Cairo, no one was surprised.
All the same, he knew he owed his appointment to his father’s influence, and he wrote to thank him and to say he was delighted to return to Cairo. Only at intervals had he heard from the Consul-General, and, though his admiration of his father knew no limit, and he thought him the greatest man in the world, he always felt there was a mist between them. Once, for a moment, had that mist seemed to be dispelled, when, on his coming of age, his father wrote a letter in which he said:
“You are twenty-one years of age, Gordon, and your mother and I have been recalling the incidents of the day on which you were born. I want to tell you that from this day forward I am no longer your father; I am your friend; perhaps the best friend you will ever have. Let nothing and no one come between us.”
Gordon’s joy on returning to Egypt was not greater than that of the Egyptians on receiving him. They were waiting in a crowd when he arrived at the railway station, a red sea of tarbooshes, over faces he remembered as the faces of boys, with the face of Hafiz, now a soldier like himself, beaming by his carriage window.
It was not good form for a British officer to fraternize with the Egyptians, but Gordon shook hands with everybody and walked down the platform with his arm round Hafiz’s. shoulders, while the others who had come toward him cried, “Salaam, brother!” and laughed like children.
By his own choice, and contrary to custom, quarters had been found for him in the barracks on the bank of the Nile, and the old familiar scene from there made his heart leap and tremble. It was evening when at last he was left alone, and throwing the window wide he looked out on the river, which flowed like liquid gold in the sunset, with its silent boats, that looked like birds with outstretched wings, floating down without a ripple, and the violet blossom of the island on the other side spreading odours in the warm spring air.
He was watching the traffic on the bridge — the camels, the cameleers, the donkeys, the blue-shirted fellaheen, the women with tattooed chins and children astraddle on their shoulders, the water-carriers with their bodies twisted by their burdens, the Bedouins with their lean, lithe, swarthy forms and the rope round the head-shawls which descended to their shoulders — when he heard the toot of a motorcar and saw a white automobile threading its way through the crowd. The driver was a girl, and a scarf of white chiffon which she had bound about her head instead of a hat was flying back in the light breeze, leaving her face framed within, with big black eyes and a firm but lovely mouth.
An officer in general’s uniform was sitting at the back of the car, but Gordon was conscious of the man’s presence without actually seeing him, so much, was he struck by the spirit of the girl, which suggested a proud strength and self reliance, coupled with a certain high gaiety, full of energy and grace.
Gordon leaned out of his window to get a better look at her, and, quick as the glance was, he thought she looked up at him as the motor glided by. At the next instant she had gone, and it seemed to him that in one second, at one stride, the sun had gone, too.
That night he dined at the British Agency, but he did not stay late, thinking his father, who looked much older, seemed preoccupied, and his mother, who appeared to be more delicate than ever, was over-exciting herself; but early next morning he rode up to the Citadel to pay his respects to his General in command, and there a surprise awaited him. General Graves was ill and unable to see him, but his daughter came to offer his apologies — and she was the driver of the automobile.
The impression of strength and energy which the girl had made on him the evening before was deepened by this nearer view. She was fairly tall, and as she swung into the room her graceful, round form seemed to be poised from the hips. This particularly struck him, as he told himself at that first moment that here was a girl who might be a soldier, with the passionate daring and chivalry of women like Joan of Arc and the Rani of Jhansi.
At the next moment he had forgotten all about that, and under the caressing smile which broke from her face and fascinated him, he was feeling as if for the first time in his life he was alone with a young and beautiful woman. They talked a long time, and he was startled by an unexpected depth in her voice, while his own voice seemed to him to have suddenly disappeared.
“You like the Egyptians, yes?” she asked.
“I love them,” said Gordon. “And coming back here is like coming home. In fact, it is coming home. I’ve never been at home in England, and I love the desert, I love the Nile, I love everything and everybody.”
She laughed — a fresh, ringing laugh, that was one of her great charms — and told him about herself and her female friends — the Khediviah, who was so sweet, and the Princess Nazimah, who was so amusing, and finally about the Sheikh who for two years had been teaching her Arabic.
“I should have known you by your resemblance to your mother,” she said. “But you are like your father, too; and then I saw you yesterday — passing the barracks, you remember.”
“So you really did... I thought our eyes—”
His ridiculous voice was getting out of all control, so he cleared his throat and got up to go, but the half smile that parted her lips and brightened her beautiful eyes seemed to say as plainly as words could speak, “Why leave so soon?”
He lingered as long as he dared, and when he took up his cap and riding-whip she threw the same chiffon scarf over her head and walked with him through the garden to the gate. There they parted, and when, a little ashamed of himself, he held her soft, white hand somewhat too long and pressed it slightly he thought an answering pressure came back from her.
In three weeks they were engaged.
The General trembled when he heard what had happened, protested he was losing the only one he had in the world, asked what was to become of him when Helena had to go away with her husband, as a soldier’s wife should, but finally concluded to go on half-pay and follow her, and then said to Gordon: “Speak to your father. If he is satisfied, so am I.”
The Consul-General listened passively, standing with his back to the fireplace, and after a moment of silence he said:
“I’ve never believed in a man marrying for rank or wealth. If he has any real stuff in him he can do better than that. I didn’t do it myself and I don’t expect my son to do it. As for the girl, if she can do as well for her husband as she has done for her father, she’ll be worth more to you than any title or any fortune. But see what your mother says. I’m busy. Good day!”
His mother said very little; she cried all the time he was telling her, but at last she told him there was not anybody else in the world she would give him up to except Helena, because Helena was gold — pure, pure gold.
