CHAPTER XII
Esbul, the Armenian
A grilling sun poured its rays down on to the desert and on to the headsand backs and shoulders of the Turks and British and Indians alike. Itsglancing rays shone and flashed with startling brilliance from the broadsheet of water flowing so smoothly along beside the right flank of theBritish, making the naval sloops, which had come up the Shatt-el-Arab,stand out more prominently, more vindictively, as it were, than usual.The scene of this conflict might, but a day or two before, have beendescribed by a visitor to this portion of Mesopotamia as entirely andabsolutely uninteresting; for where could there be interest in a wide,almost flat stretch of sandy-gravel desert, bordered in the farsouth-west by a stretch of noisome green-clad marshes, and on the rightby a river some seven hundred yards in breadth perhaps, almost innocentof vessels, and whose banks showed scarce a habitation.
But see it now on this day of battle. As deserted it seemed as ever, asflat and devoid of landmarks as possible; and yet, when one lookedclosely at it, when--supposing one had clambered to the top of thetallest palm-tree--one peered at the desert and searched its every yardthrough a pair of glasses; see those lines of trenches--trenches whichthe British Expeditionary Force had delved at furious speed during thehours of darkness--stretching away at right angles to the river. Seethose British guns dug in behind the trenches, well behind, and thoseothers craftily hidden amongst the palm-trees, close to theShatt-el-Arab; and cast a glance to the far left of the lines oftrenches, and note those horsemen well away in the desert, waiting foran opportunity to outflank and round up the enemy. Yes, and beyond, inparallel lines, were the Turkish trenches, just as Geoff had seen themon the previous day. Deep lines cut in the soil like those of theBritish, seemingly unpeopled, and yet swarming with soldiers ready to dobattle.
But as yet the time had not arrived, and those swarming soldiers sat intheir trenches invisible, save for a busy sentry here and there whopeeped warily over the parapet and looked towards the enemy. But tinycolumns of smoke hung above the troops, and doubtless many a meal wasbeing cooked over many a brazier. Perhaps it was five in the morning,for men must fight early where the sun is hottest. A gun sounded fromthe river, while a puff of smoke belched from the bows of one of thesloops anchored in the fairway. It was answered almost immediately by atrumpet-call in the far distance, and that imaginary person watchingfrom the top of a palm-tree would have observed that the British cavalrywere in motion.
"It's coming off!" Geoff told Phil enthusiastically, as he cantered upto the position held by the reserves of the Mahrattas. "We ain't goingback, not a foot, and before nightfall we ought to have cleared them outof their trenches. A frontal attack, my boy, and not sufficient timenor sufficient guns to blow a way through them."
Phil grinned up at his chum, a rather nervous little grin, for that wasthis gallant young fellow's way when he was excited and there werethings doing.
"Cold steel, eh?" he said. "Then the Mahrattas are the boys to do it."
And yet the hours wore away with little else but gun-fire andrifle-volleys, while the men sweltered and sweated in their trenches.Imagine the heat in those narrow dug-outs, with a tropical sun pouringright down into them, and men congregated closely.
"A charge ain't nuffin' to it," one of the men told a comrade, as hewiped the sweat from his forehead with a grimy, desert-stained hand."Swelp me! I wish I was in at 'em. What's a-keepin' of us?"
The comrade addressed stared back at him blankly, for indeed thequestion was entirely beyond him. Mechanically, abstractedly, he pulleda little cloth bag from his tunic pocket, and from another a clay ofvenerable appearance, and somewhat attenuated it is true, seeing thatthe stem had broken off midway, and slowly stuffed the bowl with theweed he favoured. Just as slowly, just as abstractedly, he applied alighted match to the bowl, and began to smoke almost sadly, growlinginto the stem, puffing huge columns of smoke against the parapet of thetrench, and giving vent to low, angry growls, as though he were a dog ina very bad temper. Then, of a sudden, he delivered himself ofwell-considered opinions.
"Whoi ain't we a-doin' nuffink?" he asked in the most excellent cockney."Whoi nah, if Oi was the G.O.C.--and Oi tells yer there's more thingsthan that what's more unlikely--if Oi was the G.O.C. Oi'd just be upand doin'. See 'ere, Bill, Oi 'aint got nuffink up against 'im--that'sthe G.O.C.--for every chap along of us knows that 'e's a good 'un, butyou just moind me, if that there G.O.C. was along 'ere in the trenches,a-swelterin' and a-sweatin', whoi, 'e'd know what it was, and 'e'd befor gettin' along with the business. 'E ain't afraid, not 'arf! Butwell, what's 'e after?"
His comrade coughed, a satirical, nasty, impatient sort of cough, andagain dashed the sweat from his forehead.
"That's just what I was askin' you," he said, contempt in his voice,deep displeasure, disgust if you will, for indeed these two gallantfellows were eager to be up and doing, while inertia told upon theirnerves and their tempers. "That's the very question. What is he doin'this 'ere G.O.C., a-keepin' us sweltering away in these 'ere trenches.Now you've wondered what you'd do if you was 'im. I'll tell yer what I'ddo if I wore 'is shoes, and 'ad control of the troops what's with us.I'd----"
A Turkish shell plumping into the sand just a yard in front of thatparapet somewhat disturbed the deliberations of these two arm-chair(that is, arm-chair for the moment) soldiers, for it burst with asplitting, thundering, shaking report, and promptly blew in the face ofthe trench on them. It was a couple of very angry, somewhat startled,and very disgusted individuals who finally scooped their way out of themass which had almost buried them, and again sat down on the firestep ofthe trench to compare notes on the occurrence. But they had little timeto continue, for that shell seemed to have been the signal for moreactive operations. Turkish guns belched missiles at the British, whileBritish guns answered them with a vengeance. Then those horsemencareering out on the left flank of the Expeditionary Force were seen tobe making off at an angle which would carry them beyond the flank of theTurks, and threaten to surround them. A movement, too, was seen amongstthe men in the British trenches. Officers' whistles sounded shrilly,while hoarse commands were shouted.
"Make ready to leave trenches! Fix bayonets!"
From the far end of the line numbers of figures suddenly clambered overthe parapet of the trench and darted forward, only to throw themselveson the ground when they had covered perhaps a hundred yards, and beforethe Turkish rifles or machine-guns could get at them. Then the samemovement was repeated farther down, in another spot, and in another, andanother. In an incredibly short space of time rifle-firing had becomefurious and unceasing, and had been transferred from the line of Britishtrenches to those figures lying out in the open. Nor were they leftthere for long unsupported, for once more the movement commenced, andother groups dashed out to join them, while British guns thundered onunceasingly. In this way, little by little, by short rushes, theinfantry advanced towards the enemy trenches, while the cavalry and thenaval sloops had also come into action. Turks could be seen moving totheir right flank to oppose the former, while the sloops steamed higherup the river till they outflanked the Turks, and could enfilade theirposition.
It was at this stage that Geoff was again sent out with a message, and,taking the precaution to leave Sultan well in the rear--for to haveridden him forward would have been to court disaster--he made a dash forthe trenches, and from there to the line of the swarthy Mahrattasstretched out in the open. On the way he had delivered his message, andthe temptation to join his old regiment and to hunt up his chum Philipwas too strong for him. Creeping and rolling he finally came upon thatyoung hopeful beside his platoon, and lay down near him.
"How d'you like it?" Philip shouted at him, for the rattle of riflesdrowned the ordinary voice. "I hope they won't keep us out here verylong, for those Turkish soldiers are fairly good marksmen, and it ishard luck for men to be shot whilst lying here and doing nothing. Looksas though we were going to charge the trenches."
"That's the order," Geoff told hi
m. "We're near enough already, and ifyou look towards the enemy's position you'll see that some of them arealready retiring."
A glance over the figures of his men showed Phil indeed numbers of Turkscrawling from their trenches and fleeing across country. Farther back ateam of battery horses swung in behind a gun position, and, raising hisglasses, Geoff watched as the gunners endeavoured to hitch the team totheir weapon and pull it out of its dug-out. But it was an operationthey never accomplished, for a shell sailing over the positionspluttered shrapnel in all directions, putting the better part of theteam out of action and scattering the gunners.
"Charge!"
Whistles shrieked down the line. Officers sprang to the front of theircompanies, while British and Indians, helmeted and turbaned figures,leapt to their feet, and, with bayonets advanced, dashed across thespace which intervened between themselves and the enemy positions.Hoarse guttural shouts left the throats of those British warriors whohad come to Mesopotamia, while the higher-pitched cheers of the Indiansmingled with them; and then, reserving their breath for the assault,heedless of the bullets which picked out numbers of them, and caused mento roll and bowl over, and which laid them out stark and stiff on thedesert, the men went on in silence--that British silence, that dour,cold, remorseless calm which before now on many a field has scared theenemies of Great Britain. But it only lasted a few moments, until, infact, the Turkish trenches were reached, and the men were in amongst theenemy. Yes, in amongst the enemy, for the Turks, to do them justice, hadnot all of them deserted their position. Many clung to their trencheswith reckless bravery, and now crossed bayonets with men of theExpeditionary Force, with reeling, shouting men from the good County ofDorset, with tall, lithe, dusky sons of the race of Mahrattas, withsweltering, cursing white men, with dusky subjects of the King-Emperorwho leapt at their enemies with the swift bound of a tiger. There wasthe crash of steel, the rattle and thud of rifle-butt coming againstrifle-butt; there were yells and screams; there was the dull ugly soundof the bayonet-point as it struck some metal object--perhaps abutton--and, sheering from it, went silently through its victim. Therewere the groans of bayoneted Turks; there was the cough of men whosechests had been transfixed, and whose lungs were flooded with blood.
It was a charge, a charge home, a charge which swept the British forceinto and over the enemy trenches, which hurled the Turks from theirline, and which won a position for our men which, earlier in the day,the German officers had considered impregnable. Yes, German officers,white-faced sons of the Teutonic Empire, officers of the Kaiser, sent tocarry his mission of world-wide conquest into Turkey in Asia, lay stilland cold and white, their sightless eyes staring up at the burning sunwhich hung like a blazing orb above them.
It was war, this scene; and what was left when the howls and shouts ofthe soldiers had died down was the result of war, as it has been fromearliest times, with just a few little changes and alterations which thegrowth of knowledge, the advance of science, and, in these latter days,the enormous increase in mechanical inventions have brought to it. Mendie much in the same way, whether they be transfixed by the shortstabbing sword of one of the old Roman Legionaries or by the bayonet ofa British soldier; an arrow sent by a cross-bow, or by one of the oldbows of England, has, or let us say had in the old days, much the sameeffect upon the man it struck as have bullets discharged from these-dayweapons. A vital part is struck, and the man dies, and lies there,looking much the same to-day as when Roman Legions traversed this veryspot in Mesopotamia.
"An ugly sight," you will say, "the horrible result of men's passions."
War? Yes, the result of war! But war not sought by King George or hispeople. That somewhat ghastly scene which Geoff looked upon, once theTurkish trenches had been captured, was not the doing of Great Britain,of France, of Russia, or of any of the Allies. It was the direct resultof an ambitious policy fostered in Germany, a policy which had thrivenand grown during forty years or more of ceaseless activity, which aimedat world dominance, and which, here in Mesopotamia, in France, inPoland, in a thousand places, was to produce the same and worsescenes--scenes of slaughter; scenes where men were robbed of theirlives--young men who might have lived on and been of vast use to theirown country, and would have done so, no doubt, had the Kaiser and hiswar lords not hatched that conspiracy to seize the whole world and bringit into the subjection of the Hohenzollerns.
Philip plumped himself down beside Geoff, and, pulling his water-bottleto the front, presented a cup of water to him. There was sweat on hisbrow; his face, his hands, his tunic, every part of him, was stainedwith sandy dust, which had been washed into little furrows on his faceby the perspiration which had streamed from his forehead. He was gaspingstill, as was Geoff; his eyes were shining, while a glance at the youngfellow showed that he was still filled with excitement.
"We got home," he told his chum, "and the Mahrattas went in like lions."
Geoff nodded, and, tossing his head back, drained the cup of water.
"Like lions!" he agreed enthusiastically. "And the Dorsets, my boy! Didyou hear them? Did you hear those boys go in at the Turks? It waster--r--if--ic! Hallo, what's that? Look over there!"
Away on the left they could see British horsemen galloping in widecircles to round up fugitives from the lines so recently vacated by theenemy, and here and there parties of troopers were cutting across thedesert so as to encircle men who were striking towards their left andlooked like escaping. And amongst the fleeing Turks were some who weremounted, and amongst them, no doubt, more than one German officer. Geoffhad been watching them for a moment, and now had his attention attractedto a little group clear of the British horsemen just then, and appearingto have every chance of getting away safely. Of a sudden he saw ahorseman burst from the group, while shots were fired as he spurred awayfrom the others; then a couple from the group swung their horses roundand set off in pursuit, careless of the fact that the fugitive wasturning his mount in the direction of the British. It was an amazingsight, and drew exclamations from many.
"What's it mean?" demanded Philip, still puffing and blowing after hisexertions.
"Don't know, but I'm going to see."
Geoff leapt across the trench, at the bottom of which lay many woundedand dead Turks, and sped across the open over which our troops had sorecently and so gallantly advanced. In the distance he caught sight ofhis own fine Arab, of Sultan, and, signalling wildly with his hands,managed to attract the attention of the syce in charge of him. The manleapt into the saddle in an instant, and before many minutes hadpassed, Sultan, blowing and stamping and fidgeting, was pulled up withina few feet of our hero. To change places with the syce was the work ofonly a few moments, and in a trice Geoff was off again, and leaping hismount over the trenches sped on towards that horseman who had sostrangely and so inexplicably burst his way from the group escaping fromthe British. He had a mile or more to cover, but Sultan made nothing ofit. Indeed, in a little while Geoff had drawn quite close to the man,and, swinging Sultan round, was soon riding beside him. At the same timehe turned, and drawing his revolver emptied it at the two men stillpursuing. Whether his bullets went wide of their mark or narrowlyescaped meeting a billet he never knew, but their effect was excellent,for the men pulled in their horses, and, having fired in return withoutresult, swung their mounts round and galloped off to join theircompanions.
"GEOFF TURNED, AND, DRAWING HIS REVOLVER, EMPTIED IT ATTHE TWO MEN STILL PURSUING"]
"Who are you?" demanded Geoff, pulling in Sultan.
"An Armenian, Excellency."
"And why with the Turks? You are not a soldier," said Geoff, noticingthat the man was in civilian costume.
"A soldier? No, Excellency. A messenger merely, one who bears a missiveto the British."
"Then a friend of the British, eh?" asked Geoff.
"A friend? Yes, always. In the service of a British Pasha these manyyears. A friend, at heart, of England."
Geoff stared at the man, and then, setting Sultan in motion, rodealong, the man
trotting his horse beside him.
"A message, eh?" asked Geoff after a while, having pondered deeply. "Forthe British, you say?"
"For the British, Excellency, for any whom it may concern. News of anEnglish pasha who came but lately to this country."
"Oh, whom? The name? For whom is the message intended?"
"Excellency, I was to find the British force invading Mesopotamia. I wasto hand my missive over to an officer of distinction, and I was tosearch amongst the officers who came from India for one, a youth, whomight be with them."
"His name?" asked Geoff, now beginning to tremble with excitement, forwho could this white man be who had sent a message? Who could the pashabe to whom this Armenian referred? Could it be Joe Douglas, hisguardian, that excellent fellow who had befriended him these many years,and who had so recently gone on an expedition to Asiatic Turkey, andwho, after his custom--a custom that Geoff knew so well--had disappearedentirely? There was no news from Joe Douglas these many weeks past, nota line, not a chirrup from him. But could this be his messenger? If so,Geoff should know him. Swinging round in his saddle he gripped the man'sarm and stared into his face. A moment later he uttered a shout--a shoutof happiness.
"You are Esbul, eh?" he asked.
"And you, Excellency, you are Keith Pasha."
"The message; give it to me," demanded Geoff fiercely, worked up by theoccasion. "Yes, I am Keith Pasha, and your message comes from DouglasPasha, my dear guardian."
It was with a shout of joy that he recognized the handwriting of thatgallant soldier who had been as a father to him, and tearing the missiveopen he read it with an eagerness which was plainly apparent to the manwho had brought it.
"If this reaches the hand of my ward, Geoff Keith, or of any Britishofficer, let him give information of my position to the CommandingOfficer of any expedition which may come from India to Mesopotamia. Ihave little time or space or means whereby to write a long message, andtherefore must compress my information. I am a prisoner lying in a cellwithin a Turkish fort to the north and west of Bagdad, but whereprecisely I cannot say, nor do I know the name of this fortress. I wascaptured by a German named von Hildemaller. His agents trapped me at aplace I sought outside Bagdad, and seized me. But for a friendly Turkthey would have murdered me on the spot, and, as it is, they handed meover a prisoner. I make no complaint, but if the expedition advancestowards Bagdad, let it make an effort to relieve me."
Geoff gasped, and re-read the message--devoured it in fact--for it wasgood to hear that Joe Douglas was alive, even though he were a prisoner.
"Tell me, Esbul," he said at last, while they continued to ride onslowly side by side, "this message--you received it from Douglas Pashahimself? You know where he is imprisoned?"
"Not so, Excellency, not so, Keith Pasha! This man--this devil, I callhim--this German, the smiling, sweet-faced von Hildemaller. Ah! how Iknow the man, how I hate, detest, and fear him--he is too strong, toocunning, too artful to allow your servant or any other friend of DouglasPasha to know of his whereabouts. Only von Hildemaller and Turks in highplaces can tell of the prison in which my master is shut up."
"But then," said Geoff quickly, "how--how came you to get the message?"
"It is shortly told, Excellency. There is a Jew, an Armenian Jew, in thecity of Bagdad, a great admirer of my master, an old and trusted friendof his, who has been ever loyal to him."
"I know the man," said Geoff; "tall, angular, and bony; a man who sitsin the market-place and sells embroidery."
"The same," said Esbul; "a wonderful man, who knows secrets that arehidden from many of us. He it was who brought the message to me inBagdad, and bade me bear it in this direction. Yet, clever as this oldArmenian Jew is, he too is ignorant of the place in which Douglas Pashais imprisoned."
"But could help one to discover it," cried Geoff, still holding themessage in his hand.
"Who knows, Excellency? This Jew, this Benshi, as they call him, is aman of parts, and, seeing that he is a friend of the pasha, he willsurely help. But remember, Excellency, Turkey is now at war with yourpeople; even I, riding towards your camp, and coming upon the Turks inthis position, was seized upon. There was no time in which tocross-examine me, to find out why I came and whither, and for thatreason, when the retreat began, they--the Turkish officers, and withthem some Germans--were carrying me off with them. But you, Keith Pasha,they would know at once as an enemy, while I might pass, as indeed Ihave, through the country."
Geoff smiled at him, a smile of assurance.
"You forget, Esbul," he said, "you forget that I too have been inMesopotamia with Douglas Pasha, that I speak your tongue and Turkishlike a native, and that a fez or Arab clothing can make a wonderfuldifference. Why indeed should I not make this attempt to relieve myguardian? Tell me, Esbul, if in your case your father were imprisoned bysome enemy, and there lay danger and difficulty between you and him andhis prison, would you then count the danger and the difficulty and allowthem to deter you from an attempt at his rescue?"
The tall, lithe young Armenian brought his hand with a sounding flapagainst the neck of his horse, while he gave vent to a sharpexclamation.
"Master," he said emphatically, "I would not! There are many who countthe Armenian people as a shameless, effeminate race, who look upon thedenizens of Erzerum and the surrounding country in which our race dwellsas beneath contempt, unfit for this world, who hate us--and who therebyshow some jealousy of us. But yet, peace-loving as we are, there liesdeep down in the hearts of my brothers a source of courage--couragewhich, should the opportunity present itself, will spur them to fightthe Turk and attempt to throw off his governance. Yet the hour mightnever come; and, while we wait, massacres take place, and indeed, evennow, my people are being slaughtered. Yes, my master, if there be dangerand difficulty in a task such as the one you mention, it should notperturb you. For listen, have I, the humble servant of Douglas Pasha,not braved many dangers in my journey hither? And he, though a good andliberal master to me, is yet not my father."
Geoff brought his hand down on the Armenian's back with a smack, andsmiled encouragingly at him.
"You've done splendidly, Esbul," he told him, "and you shall see that Iwill make the most of this message. Now let us make our way toHead-quarters."
Still riding slowly side by side, so as to give their horses anopportunity of cooling, they crossed the desert over which the Turks hadretired, in many cases so precipitately, passing many dead and wounded.Then they rode their horses over the vacated trenches--that is, vacatedby living men, and now tenanted only by the dead who had so bravely heldthem. Beyond, there was the space across which those British and Indiantroops had come hurtling in their mad charge, as they threw themselvestoward the enemy trenches. A little while ago the desert here had beendotted with figures, some lying prone and stiff and stark, while otherswere sitting up and looking about them, and others, yet again, crawlingtowards the position now captured by their comrades. A little fartherand Geoff and his companion reached the broad belt of palms which clungto either side of the broad stretch of the Shatt-el-Arab, to find horsespicketed in the shade, munching contentedly at their daily rations, tosee carts of every description parked beneath the trees, while, in theopen, motor ambulance-wagons purred their way to and fro, as theybrought in the wounded or went off across the hard, sandy desert insearch of others. And in a retired part, just beyond the wagon-park,they came upon and halted beside a huge tent, over which flew the flagof the Red Cross. British and Indian orderlies were moving brisklyabout, while through the open sides of the tent Geoff caught a glimpseof stretchers laid in rows, and upon them bandaged soldiers lying verycontentedly, out of the heat of the sun and with the cool breeze playingin upon them. And out in front of the tent, with the shadows of thetrees cast across it, stood a table whereon lay a wounded man in thehands of the surgeon. Geoff shuddered, and then looked again; looked andadmired the calmness and unconcern of the officers attending to thatwounded man, their dexterity, the swiftness and silence of the o
rderlieswho assisted; and then, catching the eye of the wounded man himself--oneof the Dorsets--he returned with a grin the wink with which thatincorrigible individual greeted him.
Geoff turned away, and, dropping from his saddle, hunted up his friendof the Head-quarters Staff, to whom he presented his message.
"Hum! Douglas Pasha! Glad to know that he is alive. But in prison; eh,Keith! And he's your guardian!"
For a while the officer looked at the message, and from the message toKeith, studying his every expression, and then back again to themessage, pursing up his lips and wrinkling his brows thoughtfully.
"Of course," he said, "if this expedition fights its way to theneighbourhood of Bagdad it might give us an opportunity of relieving theMajor; but then Bagdad happens to be far away."
"Yes, sir," agreed Geoff, vainly attempting to make his voice soundjubilant and hopeful.
"A long way," repeated the officer, "and we may never cover thedistance; in that case----But of course," he added thoughtfully, lookingagain at Geoff, "of course, seeing that you know the country and canspeak the language, you might--eh?--you might make the attempt yourself,if you could get permission. But such permission is out of the questionnow, and you must leave it to the future."
And leave it to the future Geoff had to be content to do, though bynight and by day he still remembered that message, and indeed discussedit and a prospective journey to Bagdad threadbare with his chum, Philip,and with Esbul.
"Of course I shall go the first moment I get the opportunity," he toldthem both.
"And, with you, Esbul," the Armenian answered him immediately.
"And what about me?" asked Philip. "Ain't I good enough for such a job?Don't I begin to know Mesopotamia by heart by this time?"
"We'll see," rejoined Geoff enigmatically. "If there's a chancethough--well, you may be sure that I'll go, and take anyone I can withme."
On the Road to Bagdad: A Story of Townshend's Gallant Advance on the Tigris Page 12