Now the ferry is here. Mary is driven carefully up the inclined boards. Poilu follows.
We are out now on the broad Euphrates. Raqqa recedes. It looks beautiful, with its mud-brick and its Oriental shapes.
‘Pinkish-buff,’ I say softly.
‘That striped pot, do you mean?’
‘No,’ I say, ‘Raqqa….’
And I repeat the name softly, like a good-bye, before I get back to the world where the electric light switch rules….
Raqqa….
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Good-bye to Brak
NEW FACES and old faces!
This is our last season in Syria. We are digging now at Tell Brak, having finally closed down at Chagar.
Our house, Mac’s house, has been handed over (with immense ceremony) to the Sheikh. The Sheikh has already borrowed money on the house about three times over; nevertheless he displays distinct pride of ownership. To own the house will be good, we feel, for his ‘reputation’.
‘Though it will probably break his neck,’ says Max thoughtfully. He has explained to the Sheikh at length and with emphasis that the roof of the house must be seen to every year and duly repaired.
‘Naturally, naturally!’ says the Sheikh. ‘Inshallah, nothing will go wrong!’
‘A bit too much Inshallah about it,’ says Max. ‘All Inshallah and no repairs! That’s what will happen.’
The house, a gaudy gold watch and a horse have been presented to the Sheikh as gifts, exclusive of the rental due and compensation for crops.
Whether the Sheikh is a satisfied or a disappointed man we are not quite sure. He is all smiles and extravagant professions of affection, but he has a good try at getting extra compensation for ‘spoiling of the garden’.
‘What, then, is this garden?’ asks the French officer, amused.
What indeed? Asked to produce any trace of ever having had a garden, and indeed of knowing what a garden is, the Sheikh climbs down. ‘I intended to produce a garden,’ he says austerely; ‘but by the digging my intention was foiled.’
The ‘Sheikh’s garden’ is a subject of jest among us for some time.
This year we have at Brak with us the inevitable Michel; the gay Subri; Hiyou, with a litter of four hideous puppies; Dimitri, yearning tenderly over the puppies; and Ali. Mansur, the No. 1, the head boy, the servant skilled in European service, has, El hamdu lillah, joined the police force! He comes to see us one day, resplendent in uniform and grinning from ear to ear.
Guilford came out with us this spring as architect, and is with us again now. He has aroused enormous respect in me by being able to cut a horse’s toe-nails.
Guilford has a long, fair, serious face, and was once, at the beginning of his first season, very particular about the careful sterilizing and application of dressings to the local cuts and wounds. Having seen, however, what happens to the dressings once the men get home, and having observed one Yusuf Abdullah remove a neat bandage and lie under the dirtiest corner of the dig letting sand trickle into his wound, Guilford now dabs on a good deal of permanganate solution (appreciated because of its rich hue!) and confines himself to emphasizing what is to be applied to the outside and what can safely be drunk.
The son of a local Sheikh, exercising a car after the manner of breaking in a young horse, and having been overturned into a wadi, comes to Guilford for treatment with an immense hole in his head. Horrified, Guilford more or less fills it up with iodine, and the young man staggers about, reeling with pain.
‘Ah!’ he gasps when he can speak. ‘That is fire indeed! It is wonderful. In future I will always come to you – never to a doctor. Yes – fire, fire, indeed!’
Guilford urges Max to tell him to go to a doctor, as the wound is really serious.
‘What – this?’ demands the Sheikh’s son scornfully. ‘A headache, that is all! It is interesting, though,’ he adds thoughtfully. ‘If I hold my nose and blow – so – spittle comes out through the wound!’
Guilford turns green, and the Sheikh’s son goes away laughing.
He comes back four days later for further treatment. The wound is healing with incredible rapidity. He is deeply chagrined that no more iodine is applied; only a cleansing solution.
‘This does not burn at all,’ he says discontentedly.
A woman comes to Guilford with a pot-bellied child, and whatever the real trouble, she is delighted at the results of the mild medicaments given her. She returns to bless Guilford ‘for saving the life of my son’, and adds that he shall have her eldest daughter as soon as she is old enough; whereat Guilford blushes, and the woman goes away, laughing heartily and making a few final unprintable remarks. Needless to say she is a Kurd, and not an Arab woman!
This is an autumn dig we are doing now to complete our work. This spring we finished Chagar and concentrated on Brak, where many interesting things were found. Now we are finishing up Brak, and are going to end the season by a month or six weeks’ digging at Tell Jidle, a mound on the Balikh!
A local Sheikh, whose camp is pitched near the Jaghjagha, invites us to a ceremonial feast, and we accept. When the day comes, Subri appears in all the glory of his tight plum suit, polished shoes, and Homburg hat. He has been invited as our retainer, and he acts as a go-between, reporting to us how the cooking of the feast is proceeding and the exact moment at which our arrival should occur.
The Sheikh greets us with dignity under the wide, brown canopy of his open tent. There is a large following of friends, relations and general hangers-on with him.
After courteous greetings, the great ones (ourselves, the foremen, Alawi and Yahya, the Sheikh and his chief friends) all sit down in a circle. An old man, handsomely apparelled, approaches us, bearing a coffee-pot and three little cups. A tiny drop of intensely black coffee is poured into each. The first one is handed to me – proof that the Sheikh is acquainted with the (extraordinary!) European custom of serving women first. Max and the Sheikh have the next two. We sit and sip. In due course another tiny drop is poured into our cups and we continue to sip. Then the cups are taken back, refilled, and Guilford and the foremen drink in their turn. So it goes on round the circle. A little distance away stands a considerable crowd of those of the second rank. From behind the partition of the tent close beside me come muffled giggles and rustlings. The Sheikh’s womenfolk are peeping and listening to what goes on.
The Sheikh gives an order, and a follower goes out and returns with a perch, on which is a handsome falcon. This is set in the middle of the tent. Max congratulates the Sheikh upon the magnificent bird.
Then three men appear, carrying a large copper cauldron, which is set down in the middle of the circle. It is full of rice, on which are laid pieces of lamb. All is spiced and smoking hot and smelling delicious. Courteously we are invited to eat. We have flaps of Arab bread, with which and our fingers we help ourselves from the dish.
In due course (which is not for some time, let me say) hunger and politeness are satisfied. The vast platter, with its choicest morsels gone but still more than half-full, is lifted up and set down a little farther along, where a second circle (including Subri) sit down to eat.
Sweetmeats are handed to us and more coffee is served.
After the secondary folk have satisfied their hunger, the platter is set down in yet a third place. Its contents now are mainly rice and bones. The complete inferiors sit down to this, and those who, destitute, have come to ‘sit in the shadow of the Sheikh’. They fling themselves upon the food, and when the platter is lifted it is quite empty.
We sit a little longer, Max and the Sheikh exchanging grave comments at intervals. Then we rise, thank the Sheikh for his hospitality, and depart. The coffee-server is handsomely remunerated by Max, and the foremen single out certain mysterious individuals as those to whom largesse is due.
It is hot, and we walk home, feeling quite dazed with rice and mutton. Subri is highly satisfied with the entertainment. All, he considers, has been conducted with strict propriety.<
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Today, a week later, we in our turn have entertained a visitor. This is none other than a Sheikh of the Shammar tribe – a very great man indeed. Local Sheikhs were in attendance on him and he arrived in a beautiful grey car. A very handsome and sophisticated person, with a dark thin face and beautiful hands.
Our European meal was the best we could make it, and the excitement of the staff at the consequence of our visitor was immense!
When he finally drove away, we felt as though we had been entertaining the royal family at least.
Today has been a day of catastrophe.
Max goes into Kamichlie with Subri for shopping and to transact business with the Bank, leaving Guilford planning buildings on the mound and the foremen in charge of the men.
Guilford comes home to lunch, and he and I have just finished, and he is about to take Poilu back again to the work when we notice that the foremen are running towards the house as fast as they can come with every sign of agitation and distress.
They burst into the courtyard and pour out a flood of excited Arabic.
Guilford is completely blank, and I understand about one word in seven.
‘Somebody’s dead,’ I say to Guilford.
Alawi repeats his story with emphasis. Four people, I gather, are dead. I think at first this has been a quarrel and the men have killed each other, but Yahya shakes his head emphatically at my halting questions.
I curse myself for not having learnt to understand the language! My Arabic consists almost entirely of phrases like ‘This is not clean. Do it like this. Do not use that cloth. Bring in tea,’ and such domestic orders. This recital of violent death is quite beyond me. Dimitri and the boy and Serkis come out and listen. They understand what has happened, but since they can speak no European language, Guilford and I are still no wiser.
Guilford says: ‘I’d better go up and see,’ and moves towards Poilu.
Alawi grabs him by the sleeve and speaks vehemently, evidently dissuading him. He points dramatically. Down the sides of Brak, a mile away, a mob of motley and white-robed figures are pouring, and there is somehow an ugly and purposeful look about them. The foremen, I see, are looking frightened.
‘These fellows have run away,’ says Guilford sternly. ‘I wish we could understand what the trouble is.’
Has Alawi (hot tempered) or Yahya killed a workman with a pick? It seems wildly unlikely, and certainly they could not have killed four.
I suggest again haltingly that there has been a fight, and illustrate in dumb show. But the response is emphatically negative. Yahya gestures to something coming down from above his head.
I look up at the sky. Have the victims been struck down by a thunderbolt?
Guilford opens the door of Poilu. ‘I’m going up to see, and these fellows must come with me.’
He beckons them in authoritatively. Their refusal is prompt and decisive. They are not coming.
Guilford sticks an aggressive Australian chin out. ‘They’ve got to come!’
Dimitri is shaking his large gentle head.
‘No, no,’ he says. ‘It is very bad.’
What is very bad?
‘There’s some kind of trouble up there,’ says Guilford. He jumps into the car. Then, as he looks at the rapidly approaching mob, his head turns sharply. He stares at me in consternation, and I see what may be described as the ‘women-and-children-first’ look come into his eyes.
He descends from the car, taking care to make the movement leisurely, and says in a careful holiday tone:
‘How about taking a spin along the road to meet Max? Might as well, as there is no work going on. You get your hat or whatever you want.’
Dear Guilford, he is doing it beautifully! So careful not to alarm me.
I say slowly that we might as well, and shall I bring the money? The expedition money is kept in a cash-box under Max’s bed. If we really have an infuriated mob coming to attack the house, it will be a pity if they find money to steal.
Guilford, still trying not to ‘alarm me’, pretends that this is quite an everyday suggestion.
‘Could you,’ he says, ‘be rather quick?’
I go into the bedroom, pick up my felt hat, drag out the cash-box, and we lift it into the car. Guilford and I get in, and we beckon to Dimitri and Serkis and the boy to get in at the back.
‘We’ll take them and not the foremen,’ says Guilford, still condemnatory of the latters’ attitude in ‘running away’.
I am sorry for Guilford, who is obviously longing to go and face the mob, and has instead to care for my safety. But I am very glad that he is not going to the men. He has very little authority with them, and will, in any case, not understand a word they say, and he may easily make matters very much worse. What we need is to get Max on to the matter and find out what has really happened.
Guilford’s plan for saving Dimitri and Serkis and leaving the foremen to deal with their responsibilities is at once circumvented by Alawi and Yahya, who push aside Dimitri and climb into the car. Guilford is furious and tries to eject them. They refuse to budge.
Dimitri nods his head placidly and gestures to the kitchen. He walks back and Serkis goes with him, looking a little unhappy about it.
‘I don’t see why these fellows –’ begins Guilford.
I interrupt.
‘We can only take four in the car – and actually it seems to be Alawi and Yahya whom the men want to kill if anybody, so I think we’d better take them. I don’t think the men will have anything against Dimitri and Serkis.’
Guilford looks up and sees the running mob is getting too near for more argument. He scowls at Yahya and Alawi and drives rapidly out through the courtyard gate and round by the village to the track which leads to the Kamichlie road.
Max must have started back by now since he intended to be on the work early this afternoon, so we ought to meet him before long.
Guilford draws a sigh of relief and I tell him that that was very nicely done.
‘What was?’
‘Your casual suggestion of a pleasant drive to meet Max, and the way you avoided alarming me.’
‘Oh,’ says Guilford; ‘so you realized I wanted to get you away?’
I look at him pityingly.
We drive at full speed and in about a quarter of an hour we meet Max returning with Subri in Mary. Very surprised to see us, he pulls up. Alawi and Yahya pour themselves out of Poilu and rush towards him, and an excited spate of Arabic fills the air as Max asks sharp staccato questions.
Now at last we learn what it is all about!
For some days past we have been finding a large number of very beautifully carved small animal amulets in stone and ivory in a certain part of the dig. The men have been getting high bakshish for these, and in order to find as many as they can they have been undercutting in the pit where they are, since the amulets are at a level some way down.
Yesterday Max stopped this, since it was getting dangerous, and put the gangs to work on top again to cut down from there. The men grumbled, since it meant that they would have a day or two’s digging of uninteresting levels before they came to the amulet level once more.
The foremen were put on guard to see that they obeyed orders, and actually, although they were sulky about it, they did what they were told, and started working from the top as vigorously as possible.
This was the position when work was knocked off for lunch. And now comes a tale of base treachery and greed. The men were all stretched out on the hillside near the water jars. A gang of men who had been working on the other side crept away, sneaked round the mound to the rich spot, and began furiously digging in at the already undercut spot. They were going to rob the other men’s pitch, and pretend to produce the filched objects from their own patch of ground.
And then Nemesis overcame them. They undercut too far, and down came the higher levels on top of them!
The yells of the one man who escaped brought the whole crowd running to the spot. At once they and the foreme
n realized what had occurred, and three pickmen began hurriedly to dig their comrades out. One man was alive, but four others were dead.
Wild excitement rose at once. Cries, lamentations to Heaven, and a desire to blame someone. Whether the foremen lost their nerve and decided to run away, or whether they were actually attacked, is hard to make out. But the result was that the men poured after them in a suddenly nasty mood.
Max inclines to the view that the foremen lost their nerve and put the idea of attacking them into the men’s heads, but he wastes no time in recrimination. He turns the cars, and we both drive for all we are worth towards Kamichlie, where Max lays the matter at once before the officer at the Services Spéciaux who is in charge of security.
The Lieutenant is quick to comprehend and act. He collects four soldiers and his car and we all drive back to Brak. The men are on the mound now, seething and swaying rather like a swarm of bees. They subside when they see authority approaching. We walk up the mound in a procession. The Lieutenant sends his car off with one of the soldiers, and he himself goes to the scene of the tragedy.
Here he inquires into the facts, and the men whose place it properly is explain that it was not they but a rival gang who were trying to steal a march on them. The survivor is then interrogated, and confirms this story. Are these all the men of the gang? One unhurt, one injured and four dead? There is no possibility of anyone still being buried? No.
At this point the Lieutenant’s car returns with the local Sheikh of the tribe to which the dead workmen belong. He and the Lieutenant take charge together. Question and answer goes on.
Finally the Sheikh raises his voice and addresses the crowd. He absolves the Expedition of all blame. The men were digging out of work hours in their own time, and were, moreover, endeavouring to steal from their comrades. Theirs has been the reward of disobedience and greed. Everyone is now to go home.
Come, Tell Me How You Live Page 19