by Roger Bax
Hayson threw his head back in proud defiance and gazed without fear into the eyes of the men whom, half an hour ago, he had been instructing. They were solidly against him.
Hayson turned towards the dark wall of the chamber, and Garve wondered for a second if he were going to make a dash for freedom. Instead, without another word he whipped through the crowd of Arabs, and, before anyone could guess what he proposed to do, had flung himself over the precipice.
The suddenness of the action drew cries of horror from the Arabs, fading at once into listening silence. From the opaque depths came a heavy thud and a scream of pain as Hayson’s body, hurtling downwards, struck a projecting fang of rock. Then in a moment came the dull splash of engulfing water, an echo of the splash, and nothing more.
The Arabs crowded to the edge and stared in futile horror into the backness. Garve grimly wiped his forehead on his jacket sleeve. His score with Hayson was settled. It had been inevitable all along that Hayson should die, and the manner of his death had been easier than any the Arabs would have given him.
Moreover, with Hayson’s unexpected end the morale of the conspirators was completely undermined. They had left so much to Hayson. Not one of them could say with certainty what was happening at that moment in the outside world. They had trusted Hayson, and now that trust was gone they were worse than uninformed.
Garve hastened to take advantage of their plight. “Ali Kemal,” he called, “are you still prepared to parley? When I last interviewed you, you talked good sense. I believe you are still sensible. The choice before you all is death or surrender. If you fight here you will die at the hands of my men—if you try to fight your way out of the quarries you will be massacred by machine-gun fire. In other circumstances, death might be preferable to surrender. May I point out, however, that the revolt will not be helped by your deaths. The revolt is over. Your plan to mislead our troops has miscarried, your ammunition dumps by now are in our hands, your people are leaderless. If you surrender, you will live and carry on your country’s struggle—perhaps by wiser and more effective means. What do you say, Kemal?”
Kemal turned, his dark, handsome face as impassive as carved mahogany. “How do we know that your talk of machine-guns is not all bluff?” he asked. “Perhaps, after all, we could walk out at this very moment unharmed into the Virgin’s Fountain.”
“Very well,” said Garve, “call my bluff and try. I have warned you—if you’re shot down don’t blame me.”
“What guarantee have we that if we surrender we shall not all be shot as rebels?”
“As to that,” said Garve, “it is neither in my power nor in Willoughby’s to make promises. You have been collectively responsible for mass terrorism and have engineered the deaths of innumerable innocent people. You have planned a revolt against the authority of Britain, and you will have to stand your trial. It may be that at this very moment the city is rising at your behest. What sort of mercy can you expect?”
“The people were told to do nothing until we left the quarries and gave specific orders,” said Kemal sullenly. “If we leave as captives, you need have no fear, for there will be no revolt. In that case, what is our position with your Government?”
“I repeat that I can give no guarantee of safe conduct,” said Garve sternly, “and you must know that as well as I. To the best of my knowledge, however, not one of you here has been directly concerned in any murder, and your leader has already paid the penalty for his actions. I suggest to you that if you leave the quarries without resistance, there is at least a chance that your lives may be spared. The alternative for you is certain death. Is the chance not worth taking?”
Kemal was conversing now in rapid Arabic with the other rebels. They all talked excitedly—arguing, replying. Occasionally a voice rose high enough to be intelligible to Garve, and he gathered that the two questions of loyalty and safety were being very thoroughly discussed. Eventually Kemal became again the focal point of the argument. Garve waited patiently, since every moment that passed made it more certain that Fairfax’s men would have reached the Virgin’s Fountain.
At last the conference finished and Kemal, drawing himself up proudly, turned to face Garve for the last time. “We have agreed upon our course,” he said. “We are prepared to surrender to the authorities at the lower end of the quarries —if they are there.”
“That is not good enough,” said Garve stubbornly, “neither for you nor for me. If you leave the quarries armed, in the baseless hope that I am bluffing, there may be bloodshed before you discover I am right. I want no more fighting. Pile your arms, Kemal. My patience is almost exhausted.”
Again the Arabs broke into excited talk, but this time the debate was brief. Kemal suddenly shrugged his shoulders and threw his knife and revolver on to the rocky floor. “We place ourselves in your hands,” he said with simple dignity. One by one, the conspirators followed suit, until they stood only in their robes.
“Thank you,” said Garve. “At last you have seen wisdom. Now—lead on—and no tricks. I am as familiar with the route as you, and my men will be following you.”
Their spirit broken, the Arabs dragged the flares from their crevices and began to descend to the bottom level. Garve and Willoughby gave them a few minutes’ start and then set off after them, moving cautiously.
“I think they know themselves to be beaten,” said Garve, “but if they’re feeling revengeful they might still set a trap for us.”
“Tell me,” demanded Willoughby curiously, “how much of your count against Hayson was true?”
“Only the last bit,” said Garve, “may Heaven forgive me. As far as I know there was no treachery in his mind—he never expected that Esther would be in a position to report what he had told her. He was a deserter—or rather, a would-be deserter—not a traitor. All the same, though in many ways I was forced to respect him, I cannot help feeling that he fully deserved what he got. He was a most polished and unscrupulous liar himself, for his own ends, and it was fitting that he should have been destroyed by the weapon he chose.”
“I must say,” observed Willoughby, who showed no ill-effects after the exciting scene in the chamber, “that your own lack of veracity was redeemed by considerable ingenuity.”
“You must remember I’m a newspaper man,” said Garve unblushingly. “I have had long practice in shaping facts to suit circumstances.”
He took Willoughby’s arm in a grasp which he hoped felt filial. “Gently here—there’s another precipice. We have to climb that ledge and drop down the other side. Can you manage it?”
“Just about,” said Willoughby gamely, “though I must confess that when I came here in the hope that I should be stimulated I didn’t anticipate that the stimulus would take such a subterranean form.”
Willoughby was agile for his years, but his lame leg impeded his progress over the ledge, and he declared afterwards that its negotiation was one of the least pleasant experiences he had ever known. However, the passage was accomplished without incident, and in a few minutes the two men were skirting the ammunition dump, circling the bottom chamber, and dropping down into Hezekiah’s Tunnel. As they turned to the left towards the opening, Garve’s remaining fears were dispersed, for the broad figure of Fairfax was silhouetted against the morning sky. He was peering in at them, and as they hurried over the last few yards he came towards them, waving.
“We’ve taken them all,” he cried as he drew nearer. “Every man jack, and sent them off under armed guard. Thirty-eight of them. Marvellous, Garve, marvellous.”
“Did you have any trouble?”
“Not the slightest. I had two machine-guns trained on the opening, and if they’d shown any fight they’d have been mown down. As it was, they walked out in single file with their hands up. Wise birds—it’ll mean years off their sentence.”
“They must have been pretty cowed,” said Garve. “They could have walked through the tunnel, if they’d had any spirit, and come out at Siloam’s Pool. I forgot that.”<
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“I didn’t,” said Fairfax complacently. “I had men up there too, but they weren’t needed.”
They climbed slowly from the tunnel to the Virgin’s Fountain. “Miss Willoughby is up here,” Fairfax told Garve with a grin. “The military tried to keep her away, but short of putting her under arrest there was nothing they could do, so they gave her an escort instead.”
Esther was standing by the fountain talking to the two policemen who were to be left on guard at the tunnel. As soon as she saw the party emerging she waved and ran down to join them. The cool morning air had whipped some colour into her cheeks, and no one could have guessed that she had been up all night.
She threw herself into her father’s arms and gave him a great hug of relief and affection. Then shyly she took Garve’s hand possessively in hers.
“Darling,” she murmured, “I’m so happy. I did my job too. The rescue orders were countermanded, and the planes have been wirelessed to return. There isn’t any more danger now, is there?”
“I don’t think so,” said Garve soberly, almost overcome by her sweetness and the knowledge that she would be his wife. “According to Kemal, the people had to wait for a final instruction—and now they’ll never get it. All the same, they saw the planes go, and the sooner they see them come back the better. But I refuse to worry any more.” His arm slipped round her blatantly, and he turned to her father.
Willoughby had been watching them and listening to their affectionate conversation in some amazement, but now, as he caught his daughter’s shy smile and Garve’s broad grin, he suddenly understood.
“Well, I never,” he said gruffly, gazing fondly at the young woman he had never been able to control. Then he blew his nose violently and said “Well, I never”again, as though all other speech had left him.
“May we have your blessing, sir?” said Garve softly, and after all they had been through it seemed a solemn moment.
Willoughby took Garve’s hand in both his own. “I’m more than glad,” he said. He bent to Esther and kissed her. “More than glad. If you don’t kill her with excitement, my boy, you’ll make her very happy. But—forgive an old man’s curiosity—when did this happen?”
Esther laughed. “It was all your doing,” she said. “Sending your only daughter to swim in the Dead Sea by moonlight with a strange man!”
“Ah!” said Willoughby—and in that “Ah!” was everything that could be said. He seemed tired, but very content, and the young people helped him up the hill.
“We must have a little celebration to-night,” he said breathlessly, “or you’ll be married before I can drink your health. He glanced wickedly at Esther. “What sort of an engagement are you contemplating—a year, two years?”
Esther stole a look at Garve. “We want to be married on the boat—going home,” she said.
“I thought as much. And—when do we go home? What about your paper, Garve?”
“I’m finishing this job to-day,” said Garve decidedly. “The story’s over. I’ve got the finest exclusive I’ve had for years, and I’m going to telephone three columns to London if it costs a fortune. And when I’ve finished dictating I’ll apply for honeymoon leave.”
As the party breasted the last slope, Garve suddenly exclaimed and pointed to the eastern sky. “Look!” he cried, “they’re coming back.”
A number of tiny black specks were growing larger every second and the distant drone of aeroplane engines was now clearly audible. Eighteen black bombers were returning at full speed, and in a few minutes they were racing over the city. As they reached the walls they separated in a series of glorious swoops, circled, and flew low—so low that their evil-looking bomb-racks were conspicuous to all who cared to look. For five minutes they roared and turned and twisted, inspecting the ground for any sign of trouble, making it plain to all the population of Jerusalem that they had not gone to Petra after all.
The demonstration was awe-inspiring, convincing. Presently they flew off quickly towards the neighbouring aerodrome, their work done.
Esther drew a deep breath. “That settles it,” she said. “A revolt has been arranged but will not take place.”
Garve was more cautious. “Not yet, anyway,” he said.
THE END
Copyright
First published in 1938 by Collins
This edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world
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Copyright © Roger Bax, 1938
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