Complete works of hall c.., p.484
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 484
“Did not God promise us, through the mouth of His messenger, that we should go into Cairo — and will He break His word?” —
“Allah! Allah!” shouted the crowd.
“Did he not tell us He would send a sign?”
“Allah! Allah!”
“Shall we say it will not come, and call God a liar?”
“Allah! Allah!”
“‘At the hour of midnight prayers,’ he said, ‘the light will shine!’”
“Allah! Allah! Allah!”
“Pray for it, my brothers, pray for it,” cried Zogal, and in another moment, with the delirious strength of one possessed, he had cleared a long passage through the people, and begun to lead a wild barbaric zikr, such as he had seen in the depths of the desert.
“The light! The light! Send the light, O Allah!” cried Zogal, striding up and down the long alley of bowing and swaying people, and tossing his sweating and foaming face up to the dark sky.
It has been truly said that everything favours those who have a special destiny — that they may become glorious against their own will and as if by the command of fate. It was so with Ishmael. At the very moment when Zogal, on the desert, was calling for the light which he believed God Lad promised, Hafiz, at the Citadel, having received the message which Helena had sent over the telephone from the house of the Princess Nazimah, was running with a powerful lantern up the winding stairway of one of the minarets of the mosque of Mohammed Ali.
“The light! The light! Send the light, O Allah!” cried the Dervish, and at the next moment, while the breathless crowd about him were looking through the darkness toward the heights above Cairo, expecting to see the manifestation of God’s sign in the sky, the light appeared!
In an instant the whole camp was a scene of frantic rejoicing. Men were shouting, women were lu-luing, camels and asses were being saddled, tents were being struck, and everybody and everything was astir.
Oh, mysterious and divine power of destiny that could make the fate of an entire nation hang on the accident of time and the unreasoning impulses of one poor demented man!
XII
NEXT day Ishmael entered Cairo. News of his coming had been noised abroad and the police at their various stations had been told that beyond the necessary efforts to preserve order they were not in any way to interfere with his procession. Neither Ishmael nor any of his people were to be allowed to pose as martyrs. There was to be no resistance and no bloodshed. If possible, there was to be no scene.
The guests at the King’s Dinner had left the Ghezirah long before midnight. Such of them as were innocent of all participation in conspiracy (they were the majority) attributed the Consul-General’s strange outbreak to an attack of mental vertigo in an old man whose health had long been failing from the pressure of public work. Nothing was allowed to occur which would give the incident a more serious significance. The bridge which had been opened was closed and the guests had returned to their homes as usual.
In the early hours of morning they were awakened by loud shoutings in the streets. Two hundred men from Ishmael’s company had galloped ahead as heralds, and, flying down every thoroughfare to reassure the population of the nature of the vast procession that was coming, they were crying:
“Peace! Peace! It is Peace!”
After that the general body of the native people, who had been on the tiptoe of expectation, were speeding along the streets. They found mounted and foot police stationed at various points, but no military and no guns.
It was a triumphant entry. The procession came in by the Gizeh bridge, and passing down the Kasr el Aini into the place Ismailyah, it turned down the broad boulevard Ahul Aziz toward the heart of the city.
The sun was rising, and the scene was a blaze of colour. Banners were swinging from the houses like ship’s pennants in stormy seas. The streets seemed to he carpeted with the tarbooshes and turbans of the great, moving, surging masses of humanity, that were slowly passing through them. There were brown faces that were almost white from the fatigue of the long desert march, and white faces that were burned brown by the tropical sun. It was a swarming, shifting, variegated throng, and over all was the dazzling splendour of the Eastern sunrise.
Before the procession had gone far it seemed as if the whole population of Cairo had come out to meet it. Eternal children! There is nothing they love more than to look at a great spectacle, except to take part in it, and they hastened to take part in this one. Every window and balcony was soon full of faces; every house-top was alive with movement and aflame with colour. People were thronging the footpaths on either side as the pilgrims passed between.
The wives and children of the hundred emissaries who left Cairo on Ishmael’s errand had come out to look for their husbands and fathers returning home. Eagerly they were scanning the faces of the pilgrims and loud and wild were their cries of joy when they recognised their own.
Many of those who had no personal interest in the procession fell into line with it. A company of Dervishes walked by its side playing pipes and drums. Other musicians joined them with strange-looking wooden and brass instruments. Bursts of wild Arab music broke out from time to time and then stopped, leaving a sort of confused and tumultuous silence.
Carts filled with women and children, who were laughing and lu-luing by turns, jolted along by the pilgrims and shouted to them and cheered them. And then there were the pilgrims themselves, the vast concourse of fully forty thousand from the Soudan, from Assouan, from the long Valley of the Nile, some on horses, some on camels, some on donkeys, some wearing their simple felt skull caps and galabeahs, others in flowing robes and crimson head-dresses. The barbaric splendour and intoxicating arrogance of it all was such as the people of Cairo had never seen before.
To the great body of the Cairenes the entrance of Ishmael Ameer denoted victory. That the Government permitted it indicated defeat. The great English lord, who had closed El Azhar, thereby damming up the chief fountain of the Islamic faith, had been beaten. Either the Powers, or God Himself, had suppressed him and rebuked England. Pharaoh had fallen. The children of Allah were crossing their Bed Sea. Even as Mohammed, after being expelled from Mecca as a rebel, had returned to it as a conqueror, so Ishmael, after being cast out of Cairo as the enemy of England, was coming hack as England’s master and king. So louder and louder became their wild acclamations.
“Victory to Islam!”
“El Hamdullillah!”
“God has willed it!”
When Ishmael himself appeared the shouts of welcome were deafening. He had been long in coming, and the people had been waiting for him all along the line. He came at the end of the procession, and if he could have escaped from it altogether he would have done so.
In spite of all this glory, all this grandeur, a deep melancholy filled the soul of Ishmael. He was not carried away by what had happened. Nothing that had occurred since the night before had touched his pride. When the light appeared on the minaret he had not been deceived. He knew that by some unknown turn of the wheel of chance his people were to be allowed to enter Cairo, but all the same his heart was low.
The only interpretation he put upon the change in events was a mystic one. God had refused his atonement! God had taken the leadership of his people out of his hand! As punishment of his weakness in permitting himself to be betrayed God had made him a mere follower of his own black servant! Therefore his glory was his shame! His hour of triumph was his hour of sorrow and disgrace! He was entering Cairo under the frown of the face of God!
When the camp had been ready to move he had mounted his white camel and ridden last, beset by melancholy preoccupations. But when he came to the Gizeh bridge and saw the crowds that were coming out to greet him, and met Zogal, who had galloped into the city and was galloping back to say that the people of Cairo were preparing a triumph for him, he made his camel kneel and in the deep abasement of his soul he got down to walk.
He walked the whole length of the Kasr el Aini, with head down, like a man who was ashamed, shuddering visibly when the onlookers cheered, trembling when they commended him to God, and almost falling when they saluted him as the Deliverer and Redeemer of Islam and its people.
Although of large frame and strong muscle, he was a man of delicate organisation, and the strain his soul was going through was tearing his body to pieces. At length, as he approached the place Ismailyah, where the crowd was dense, he stumbled and fell on one knee.
Zogal, who was behind, leaped from the ass he was riding and lifted the Master in his arms, but it was seen that he could not stand. There was a moment’s hesitation in which the black man seemed to ask himself what he ought to do, and at the next instant he had thrown his white cloak over the donkey’s back and lifted Ishmael into the saddle.
Meantime the people in the streets, in the balconies, on the house-tops, were waiting for the new prophet. They expected to see him coming into Cairo as a conqueror — in a litter perhaps, covered with gold and fringed with jingling coins and cowries — the central figure of a great procession such as would remind them of the grandeur of the Mahmal, the holy carpet, returning from Mecca.
When at length he came, his appearance gave a shock. His face was pale, his head was down, and he was riding on an ass!
But truly everything favours him who has the great destiny. After the spectators had recovered from their first shock at the sight of Ishmael, his humility touched their imagination. Remembering how he had left Cairo and seeing how meekly he was returning to it, their acclamations became deafening.
“Praise be to God!”
“May God preserve you!”
“May God give you long life!”
And then some one who thought he saw in the entrance of Ishmael into Cairo a reproduction of the most triumphant if the most tragic incident in the life of the Lord of the Christians, shouted:
“Seyidna Isa! Seyidna Isa!” (“Our Lord Jesus!”)
In a moment the name was taken up on every side and resounded in joyous accents down the streets. The belief of a crowd is created not by slow processes of reason, but by quick flashes of emotion, and instantly the surging mass of Eastern children had accepted the idea that Ishmael Ameer was a reincarnation of that “divine man of Judea” whom he had taught them to reverence, that “son of Mary’” whom the Prophet himself had placed first among the children of men.
To make the parallel complete, people rushed out of the houses and spread their coats on the ground in front of him, and some, pushing their adoration to yet greater lengths, climbed the trees that lined the Boulevard, and tearing away branches and boughs flung them before his feet.
The Dervishes ran ahead crying the new name in frantic tones, while a company of grave-looking men walked on either side of Ishmael, chanting the first Surah: “Praise be to God the Lord of all creatures,” and the muezzin in the minarets of the mosques (blind men nearly all, who could see nothing of the boiling, bubbling, gorgeous scene below) chanted the profession of faith: “There is no god but God! God is Most Great! God is Most Great!” Men shouted with delight, women lu-lued with joy, and the thousands of voices that clashed through the air sounded like bells ringing a joyful peal.
Nothing could have exceeded the savage grandeur of Ishmael’s return to Cairo; but Ishmael himself, the white figure sitting sideways on an ass, continued to move along with a humbled and chastened soul. He was a sad man with his own secret sorrow; a bereaved man, a betrayed man, with a heart that was torn and bleeding.
When he remembered that in spite of his betrayal his predictions were being fulfilled, he told himself that that was by God’s doing only, not by his in any way. When he heard the divine name by which the people greeted him he felt as if he were being burned to the very marrow. He was crashed by their mistaken worship. He knew himself now for a poor, weak, blind, deceived and self-deluded man whom the Almighty had smitten and brought low. Therefore he made no response to the frantic acclamations. Every step of the road as he passed along was like a purgatorial procession, and his suffering was written in lines of fire on his downcast face.
“O Father, spare me, spare me!” he prayed as the people shouted by his side.
Once he made an effort to dismount, but Zogal, thinking the Master’s strength was failing, put an arm about him and held him in his seat.
It took the whole morning for the procession to pass through the city. Unconsciously, as the blood flows to the heart, it went up through the Mousky to El Azhar. All the gates of the University, which had been so long closed, were standing open. Who had opened them no one seemed to know. The people crowded into the courtyard and in a little while the vast place was full. A platform had been raised at the farther side and on this Ishmael was placed with the chief of the Ulema beside him.
By one of those accidents which always attach themselves to great events it chanced that the day of Ishmael’s return to Cairo was also the first day of the Mouled the nine days of rejoicing for the birthday of the Prophet. This fact was quickly seized upon as a means for uniting to the beautiful Moslem custom for “attaining the holy satisfaction” the opportunity of celebrating the victory for Islam which Ishmael was thought to have attained. Therefore, the Sheikh Seyid el Bakri, descendant of the Prophet and head of the Moslem confraternities, determined to receive his congregations in El Azhar, where Ishmael might share in their homage.
They came in thousands, carrying their gilded banners which were written over with lines from the Koran, ranged themselves, company after company, in half-circles before the dais, salaamed to those who sat on it, chanted words to the glory of God and His Prophet, and then stepped up to kiss the hands and sometimes the feet of their chief and his companions.
Ishmael tried to avoid their homage, but could not do so. Mechanically he uttered the usual response, “May God repeat upon you this feast in happiness and benediction,” and then fell back upon his own reflections.
Notwithstanding the blaze and blare of the scene about him, his mind was returning to Helena. Where was she? What fate had befallen her? At length, unable to bear any longer the burden of his thoughts, and the purgatory of his position, he got up and stole away through the corridors at the back of the mosque.
When darkness fell the native quarters of Cairo were illuminated. Lamps were hung from the poles which project from the minarets of the mosque. Hopes were swung from minaret to minaret, and from these, also, lamps were suspended. In the poorer streets people were going about with open flares in iron grills, and in the better avenues rich men were walking behind their lantern bearers. Blind beggars in the cafés were reciting the genealogy of the Prophet, and at the end of every passage other blind beggars were crying, “La Ilaha illa-llah!”
Late at night, when the vast following which Ishmael had brought into the city had to be housed, messengers ran through the streets asking for lodgings for the pilgrims, and people answered from their windows and balconies: “I’ll take one “; “I’ll take two.” Twenty thousand slept in the courtyard and on the roofs of El Azhar; the rest in the houses round about.
The trust in God which had seemed to be slain the night before, awoke to a new life, and when at length the delirious city lay down to sleep, the watchmen walked through the deserted thoroughfares crying, “Wahhed! Wahhed!” (God is One!)
In the dead, hollow, echoing hours of early morning a solitary coach passed through the streets in the direction of the outlying stations of the railway to Port Said. Its blinds were down. It was empty. But on the box seat beside the coachman sat a nervous, watchful person with an evil face, wearing the costume of a footman.
It was the Grand Cadi. He had been the supreme orthodox authority of the Moslem faith, sent from Constantinople as representative and exponent of the spiritual authority vested in the Sultan of Turkey as the Caliph of Islam, but he was stealing out of Cairo like a thief.
XIII
A GENERAL Court-Martial was fixed for the following morning, and Helena was for going to it just as she was, in the mixed Eastern and Western costume which she had worn on the desert, but the Princess would not hear of that. She must wear the finest gown and the smartest Paris hat that could be obtained in Cairo in order that Gordon might see her at her best.
“He may be a hero,” said the Princess, “but he is a man, too, God bless him! and he’ll want to see the woman he loves look lovely.”
So the milliners and dressmakers were set to work immediately and bound by endless pledges.
“Of course they’ll promise you the stars at noonday,” said the Princess, “but if they don’t come up to the scratch they get no money. Keep your cat hungry and she’ll catch the rat, you know.”
In due time the costume was ready, and when Helena had put it on — a close-fitting silver-gray robe and a large black hat — the Princess stood off from her and said:
“Well, my moon, my sweet, my beauty, if he doesn’t want to live a little longer after he has seen you in that he’s not fit to be alive!”
But at the last moment Helena called for a thick, dark veil.
“I’ve no right to sap away his courage,” she said, and the Princess, who had heard everything that Helena had to tell and had swung round to Gordon’s side entirely, could say no more.
Hafiz came to take the ladies to the Citadel, and as he was leaving them at the gate to go to Gordon in his quarters, Helena gave him the letter she had written at Sakkara.
“Tell him I mean all I say — every word of it,” she whispered.
The Court-Martial was held in one of the rooms of the palace of Mohammed Ali — up a wide stone staircase across a hare court, through a grained archway, beyond a great hall which in former days had seen vast assemblies, and past a door labelled “Minister of War,” into a gorgeously decorated chamber, overlooking a garden, with its patch of green shut in by high stone walls. It had once been the harem of the great Pasha.
