by Franz Werfel
The noisy quarrelling and spiteful laughter at the plebeian table was getting more and more malicious, although all the men had long been drunk. Several uninvited people, most of them young, had come crowding in, and they heaped fuel on the flames. The sun sank. It had grown late. This excited christening party cast wildly contending shadows across the grass. No doubt a brawl would have begun, had the sound of a long roll of drums, outside the Town Enclosure, not put a stop to it. Sudden quiet. "The münadirs," said somebody, and someone else cried out: "Alarm!" The young men and the old were suddenly startled out of their quarrelsome forgetfulness of realities. They all went rushing off excitedly, to take their places in the sections. Pastor Aram was seen rushing in wild haste towards the Town Enclosure. Within a few minutes Three-Tent Square was entirely empty. "Alarm!" repeated Gonzague thoughtfully, and small gold points glinted in the quiet brown depths of his eyes. This Turkish attack was just what he wanted. This time it would probably end badly. Oughtn't they to use tonight?
Krikor could not manage to get up from the table without help. Gonzague aided him. The old man's agonized legs would not obey him. He would have collapsed, had not Maris carefully steered him home. Krikor, however, seemed scarcely to notice that he was in pain. It was nothing more than an unfortunate contretemps of nature. It took a very long time to get him to the government hut.
"Alarm?" he asked as indifferently as though he had scarcely noticed such a trifle, and so forgotten it again.
"Alarm!" Gonzague impressed it on his mind. "And this time it's not going to be a joke."
The apothecary stopped. His breath failed at every fifth step. "What does it matter to me?" he breathlessly asked. "Do I belong to them? Of course not! I belong to myself." And his shaky hand traced a circle round him, to indicate the exclusive majesty of his ego-world.
"If I don't believe in evil, there isn't any evil in the world . . . there isn't any death unless I believe in it. . . . Let them kill me, I shan't even notice it. . . . Anyone who can get to that point reshapes the world out of his mind."
He tried to raise his hands above his head. But in this he failed. Gonzague, whose whole nature continually prompted him rather to see a misfortune before it had happened than to let it happen before he saw it, had understood nothing of all this. And yet he politely asked, to please the apothecary: "Which of the ancient philosophers were you quoting then?" The mandarin's mask stared indifferently out through gathering dusk. The white goatee twitched up and down. The high hollow voice announced contemptuously: "That was said by a philosopher whom no one but myself has ever quoted, or ever will quote -- Krikor of Yoghonoluk."
Gabriel had ordered the great alarm without having been quite sure of immediate danger. This time it needed the dark to show him what a force the Turks had massed -- just how large it was still impossible to determine -- in the Armenian valley and across the Orontes plain. The combined regulars and sharpshooters seemed too numerous to be quartered in villages and so had to camp in the open. The wide half-circle of their campfires extended from the ruins of Seleucia, almost as far as the farthest Armenian village, and northwards as far as Kebussiye. By degrees the spying patrols came in with astounding news. Turkish soldiers had sprung up suddenly out of nowhere: and not only soldiers but saptiehs and chettehs, Moslems from all over the countryside, suddenly armed with bayonets and Mauser rifles. Their officers were forming them into detachments. The number of armed men could not be estimated. Fantastic figures went from mouth to mouth. Yet, as Gabriel watched the huge half-circle of campfires and considered it, these figures seemed not so fantastic after all. Two things were certain. First, the Turkish commander had a strong enough force to besiege the Damlayik or storm it from South Bastion to North Saddle. Secondly, they must feel so vastly superior as to have no need to protect their advance and attack suddenly. This open advance, intended (as indeed it did) to fill the Armenians with consternation, pointed to a definite "case," which Bagradian had already provided against under the heading "general attack." He had worked it out and used a defence maneuver. Gabriel felt much calmer than he had before the two previous attacks, though this time things looked hopeless for the mountain-folk. After the first alarm he sent his runners out to the various points of defence, to collect all the leaders and the free decads at his headquarters. They were quite sober now, and all looked terrified. Gabriel, as he was empowered constitutionally to do, took over full control of the camp for the period of battle. He gave orders that all freshly killed meat was to be got ready during the night. Two hours before daybreak the trenches must be fully provisioned. Further, whatever wine or brandy was still available in the camp must be shared out among the fighters. He placed all the remaining ten-litre jars on Three-Tent Square at their disposal. (This gift was later to cause the myth of Bagradian's inexhaustible store of supplies.)
When decads, group leaders, and the people of the reserve had all assembled, Gabriel made a short speech. He explained the kind of battle they must expect, and kept nothing back. He said: "By all human reckonings we have only the choice between two deaths, between easy death in battle, or a mean and terrible death by massacre. If we realize this quite clearly -- if we are men enough to make up our minds quite coolly to choose the first, decent death in the field, then perhaps there'll be a miracle, and we shan't have to die. . . . But only then, brothers!"
A new division for the case of a general attack was formed. Chaush Nurhan, the Lion, was given command of the North Saddle. A further change of command was that Gabriel entrusted Kilikian, as he had promised to do a few hours previously, with the important sector above the ilex gully. Two entirely new fighting groups were constituted, a mobile guard and a band of komitajis. For the last Nurhan and Bagradian, remembering the guerrilla troops in the Balkan war, picked out about a hundred of the most determined men among the decads, the best shots and most expert climbers. They were to disperse over the whole valley side of the Damlayik and form ambuscades along the slopes, in tree tops, behind rocks and bushes, in hollows and folds of the ground. They were to let the attacking Turkish columns come on undisturbed, then suddenly open fire on them from behind, if possible from several points at once, without sparing munitions. Each komitaji was served out with twelve magazines, that is to say sixty cartridges, a lavish ration under the circumstances. But this time Bagradian did not propose to stint munitions, since the coming battle would doubtless bring the final decision, and he saw no reason for trying to economize bullets. Only a few remnants of the original cartridges, and those they had plundered, or else refilled, still remained in the stores. In his simple, logical way he explained their duties to the sharpshooters, so that each of these youngsters understood exactly what was wanted. The chief rule was still "a dead man for every bullet." When the komitajis had been formed, the mobile guard was picked out from among the decads. Gabriel reduced the garrison in the South Bastion, whose strong defence works made it an almost impregnable position, to only the most necessary fighters. The reservists filled in the gaps. This released about one hundred and fifty rifles for his mobile guard, which he led in person, and with which he would attack in any place where the lines seemed menaced. Most of these storm troops were mounted on the camp donkeys. Donkeys in these parts are not as slow-footed and obstinate as elsewhere, but will take any pace. The two groups of the cohort of youth, the orderlies and the section of scouts, had always to keep at the heels of the guard, so that widely extended communications between all sections and the command might never be broken.
Such were the main outlines of this ordre de bataille, already worked out by Gabriel to meet the case of general attack. He had prepared it all with the greatest calm, during the first two hours of the night. Lastly he summoned the whole reserve. It was ordered to vacate the Town Enclosure by sunrise. One half of it was destined to stand by for action in the various sectors, the other took up its position on the long reaches of the high plateau. These strips of ground, which in many places, as for instance before the ilex gully sect
or, were only about a thousand feet wide, formed a very dangerous zone. Here only a few redoubts, or rather a few loosely piled up stones, defended the Town Enclosure from assault. When Gabriel had also addressed the reserve, and made them realize themselves as the final barrier against the worst horrors of rape and child-slaughter, Nurhan the Lion sounded the bugle call. Its fierce stutter managed to shape out a few notes of the Turkish "lights out." This was the order to get to sleep.
Gabriel went to look at the howitzers. He intended to spend the night adjusting them. With Nurhan's help he had managed to train a few of the more intelligent men for artillery duty. The last two scouts were in before midnight. They reported nothing not known already. The only fresh details they could give was that the half-moon flag had been hoisted over Villa Bagradian, that many horses were tethered in a line along the courtyard, and that officers kept coming in and out. It was therefore clear that the Turks had made the villa their headquarters. Gabriel waited for the late rising of the moon. Then, with compasses, he carefully began to mark out distances on his map, and to draw calculations. A big, inflated-looking full moon gave enough light to enable him to sight an auxiliary mark and adjust his guns by it. The men of the battery were instructed to drag the lockers close up to each gun. There were still five shrapnel and twenty- three grenades in the boxes. Gabriel had half these shells placed in a row behind the guns. He went from one to the other and set the fuse with his clamping key, by the light of his electric torch. Iskulii appeared as he was doing it. At first he did not notice she was there. She called to him softly. He took her hand, and led her far away from the gun, till they were alone. They sat down under an arbutus bush; it was covered all over with red berries, which, in the moonlight, had the dead look of drops of sealing wax.
Iskuhi's voice came subdued and hesitant: "I only wanted to ask you whether it would disturb you too much if tomorrow I stayed somewhere near you."
"There's nothing in the world that does me so much good as to have you near me, Iskuhi."
Gabriel bent close over Iskuhi to look far down into her eyes, which met his ardently. An odd thought sped across his mind. This feeling which drew them together might not be love, at least not love in the ordinary meaning of the word, not the kind of love which had bound him to Juliette, but something very much greater, yet less than love. It heightened all his faculties immeasurably, made him celestially happy, without any desire diverting that happiness. It may have been the unknown love of the same blood, which quickened him like a mystic spring, welling up in Iskuhi's eyes; not the wish to be joined in future, but the utter certainty of having been so in the past. His eyes smiled into hers.
"I have no sense of death, Iskuhi. It's mad, but I simply can't make myself think that this time tomorrow I may not still be alive. Perhaps it isn't a bad omen. What do you feel?"
"Death's sure to come anyway, Gabriel. There isn't any other way out for us, is there?"
He did not extract their double meaning from her words. An incredibly light assurance sprang up within him. "One oughtn't to look too far ahead, Iskuhi. I won't think anything but tomorrow. I don't even think of tomorrow night. Do you know I'm looking forward to the morning!"
Iskuhi stood up to go back to her tent. "I only wanted to ask you to promise me something, Gabriel. Something quite obvious. If things get so that there's no more hope, please shoot me and then yourself. It's the best solution. I can't live without you. And I shouldn't like you to go on living without me -- not a second! So may I still stay somewhere near you tomorrow, please?"
No! She must give him her word not to leave her tent during the fighting. But, in exchange, he promised that if things got desperate he would either fetch or have her sent for, and kill them both. He smiled as he was promising this, since indeed nothing in his heart felt the slightest prescience of an end. Therefore he did not fear in the least for Stephan, or Juliette. Yet, as he again took up his work on the guns, he found himself surprised at his own assurance, which the fiercest reality all round him, in a threatening half-moon of fire, seemed so contemptuously to disprove.
The Kaimakam, the yüs-bashi from Antakiya, the red-haired müdir, the battalion commandant of the four companies sent from Aleppo, and two other officers sat that evening in the selamlik of Villa Bagradian, holding a council of war. That reception-room was as brilliant with candlelight as it had been when Juliette received notables. Orderlies cleared away the meal, which these officers had eaten in her salon. Bugle calls sounded outside the windows, and all the pother of resting and victualling soldiers. Since with these Armenian devils you never knew, the Kaimakam had ordered a guard for headquarters. It was now engaged in setting up its camp, laying waste the park, orchard and vegetable garden in the process.
This council had lasted a fairly long time without showing signs of complete agreement. They were discussing an important matter. Would it, or would it not, be really advisable to begin operations against the Damlayik tomorrow at sunrise, as arranged? The Kaimakam with the misanthropic complexion, the dark-brown pouches under his eyes, was the hesitant, dilatory member of this discussion. He defended his lack of resolution by insisting that, though at the Wali's request the general in Aleppo had sent them a full infantry battalion, he had failed in his promise of mountain artillery and machine guns. The Kolagasi (staff captain) from Aleppo explained this by informing them that such arms had all been cleared out of Syria, with the transferred divisions to which they belonged, and that in all Aleppo there was not so much as a single machine gun. Would it not, demanded the Kaimakam, be better not to attack for the next few days and send an urgent telegram to His Excellency Jemal Pasha, begging him to assign them the weapons they needed? The officers considered this impossible. Such direct appeals were likely to irritate the incalculable Jemal, and might even move him to countermeasures.
The yüs-bashi from Antakiya pushed back his chair and took out a sheet of paper. His fingers shook, less from excitement than because he was a chain-smoker. "Effendiler!" His voice was thin and morose. "If we're going to wait about for machine guns and mountain artillery, the best thing we can do is to winter here. The army in the field has so few of them that our request would simply be ridiculous. May I again remind the Kaimakam of the exact strength of our attacking force?"
Tonelessly he read out his figures: "Four companies from Aleppo: say a thousand men. Two companies from Alexandretta: five hundred men. The strengthened garrison from Antakiya: four hundred and fifty men. That means nearly two thousand rifles of trained infantry. Why, regiments at the front can't be nearly as strong! Further -- the second line: four hundred saptiehs from Aleppo, three hundred saptiehs from our own kazah, four hundred chettehs from the north -- that's another eleven hundred men. And, besides all that, there's our third line, of two thousand Moslems from the villages, whom we've armed. So that altogether we shall attack with a force of about five thousand rifles. . . ."
Here the yüs-bashi stopped to gulp down a small cup of coffee and light a fresh cigarette. Somebody used the pause to interrupt him:
"Don't forget the Armenians have two howitzers."
The major's hatchet face looked almost animated; his yellowish forehead began to glisten. "That artillery is completely useless. First, they have no ammunition. Second, nobody knows how to use the things. Third, we shall get hold of them very quickly again."
The Kaimakam, who, bored or weary, had sunk far back in his chair, raised heavy eyes. "Don't underrate this Bagradian fellow, Yüs-bashi. I've only seen the man once, in a bath. But he behaved with unusual insolence."
The young freckled rnudir with the carefully manicured nails interposed reproachfully: "It was a great mistake on the part of the military authorities not to have called him up. He's in the reserve. I know for a fact that Bagradian volunteered several times. Without him the coast would be perfectly quiet and normal."
The major cut short these reflections: "Bagradian this! Bagradian that! Such civilians aren't so very important. I went up yesterday and re
connoitred the Damlayik just to see for myself what the position was. They're a ragged-looking crew. Their trenches seemed to me to be quite primitive. At a generous estimate they've got between four and five hundred rifles. We should have to spit in our own faces if we hadn't cleared them out by midday."