The two men with rifles stood and pointed the weapons at the ground. The third sheathed his long knife. Elsa came out and stood on the threshold. The two horses pounded up to the house at a gallop and began to slide to a stop before they reached the sheltering trees. She could see now that it was indeed Lord Sonnenby wearing a suit with a keffiyah on his head and behind him Mr. Marshall wearing a suit that was shredded nearly to ribbons. He was covered in blood from his shoulder to his waist.
“By God, Elsa!” Sonnenby leaped from his horse before the animal came to a complete stop. He ran to her and his hands gripped her shoulders painfully. She saw he had a pistol in a holster on his hip and an ammunition belt strapped across his chest over the suit jacket. His eyes searched her face, then her body. “You are not hurt? They didn’t hurt you?” He was breathing so hard he could hardly speak and his face beneath the headdress was dripping with sweat, his beard beaded with drops.
“I am not hurt, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Oh God. Thank you, thank you.” He closed his eyes and moved his mouth silently, then turned to speak to the tribesmen. She did not know what he said, but the men lifted their arms and pointed to the west, then to the south. One of them answered, gesturing to the house.
Descartes took a step toward them. “What happened in Deir El Zor?” he asked.
Sonnenby spun around. He drew his pistol and held it inches from the French geologist’s nose. His thumb moved there was a sharp click and the pistol was cocked. Descartes froze and his blue eyes went wide.
“Gott im Himmel,” Elsa snapped at Sonnenby. She pushed his arm down. Sonnenby staggered back, blinking. “Monsieur Descartes is a friend. I forbid you to shoot him in the face.”
Sonnenby rolled the cylinder of his gun to rest the hammer on the empty chamber and holstered it. She saw that his arm trembled as he did it. He looked up and said, “Sorry. I didn’t see you when I rode up.”
“No,” Descartes said slowly in English. “You had eyes only for her. Understandable.”
Sonnenby gave Descartes a puzzled look. “You were in the shadows.”
“I was right here.”
“Mr. Marshall!” Elsa called out. To Sonnenby she said, “He looks to be injured. He is covered in blood.”
Sonnenby took a deep breath. “He is injured, but not badly.” He took the few steps toward Marshall’s horse which stood blowing noisily through its nostrils, recovering from that gallop. Marshall was breathing hard as well.
Elsa stood by the stirrup and looked up into his face. He was pale in the places that were not dark with dried blood. His hair was plastered flat to his head with blood and sweat and he had had not shaved in some time. His eyes were wary. He raised his chin without taking his eyes from her and she could see a straight wound on his neck, a gaping slice that started below his ear but stopped short of his trachea. It was deep enough that blood had poured from it, soaking his shirt on the left shoulder and chest.
“Mr. Marshall,” she said again, this time putting her hand on his knee by way of greeting.
Sonnenby ushered her gently aside. “Let’s get him down.” He and Descartes caught Marshall and lowered him from the saddle to his feet. That is when Elsa could see that Marshall’s trousers were damp.
Marshall saw her looking at his trousers and said, “It happens sometimes, fraulein.” He stood a little taller and straightened his bloody collar with a shaking hand.
Sonnenby’s eyes softened. He said quietly, “Archie. It has happened to many men when they are frightened, even under less extreme conditions.”
“His neck…” Elsa started. It had begun to bleed again. The bright glistening blood fell over the darker dried blood in little rivulets. She wanted a bandage. And sutures. And alcohol.
“What happened?” Descartes asked.
Sonnenby pointed at the wound. “One of the Ruwallah had entered his tent and had him on his back and the tip of his blade in his neck before I could stop him.”
Marshall wavered as if the retelling were as traumatic as the event itself. Elsa moved closer so she could catch him if he fainted. He needed to lie down before he fell down. She took his elbow. His eyes were unfocused and dull. She looked over her shoulder at the other two men. “He is going to faint,” she warned them.
“I would not be surprised,” Sonnenby took his other arm. “It is not every day a man looks death in the eye.”
“And you saved him.” She did not turn it into a question.
“Of course. I could not let them kill him. I’ve known him since I was a child. He is a good man.” They tried walking Marshall closer to the house and away from the unsheltered yard.
“Do you want him to lie down outside? Here?” Sonnenby asked as he took most of Marshall’s weight himself, positioning his arms and hands to lay him near the house where Descartes had been sleeping.
“Yes, on his right side. Monsuier Descartes has a medical kit, and a bottle of Talisker.”
Elsa knelt beside Marshall and pressed the lips of the wound together and held it firmly.
“What else do you need, fraulein?” Descartes held out his kit to her, and then the bottle of whiskey.
“Water to wash my hands and some of the blood from his skin so I can see what I am doing.” Descartes left them and she could hear him calling into the house to the women. Sonnenby knelt beside her and squeezed Marshall’s arm.
“Arch? You are going to be fine. Elsa is here and she is going to take care of this little inconvenience.”
That reminded Elsa that Descartes had told her that Sonnenby had been struck by a bullet. He didn’t appear to be injured. “Are you hurt too?” she asked him as she took the proffered water from the returning Descartes and poured it over the wound in Marshall’s neck.
“No.”
“The men said you had been struck,” she argued. She gently wiped the old blood from Marshall’s neck. The knife had slit the skin as straight as a scalpel and sliced part of the muscle beneath. Turning his head would be painful for a few weeks. No artery had been damaged, but the blood was coming from several smaller veins that had been completely severed. ‘Not badly’ Sonnenby had said. She wondered what he considered a bad wound. She poured a little more water on the wound and wiped away the blood, aware that Sonnenby had not answered.
Marshall opened his mouth and took a shallow breath. “He was struck. He is lying to you. He was struck as he put me on that horse. It was the bullet meant for me.”
“It was a ricochet, and only singed my back,” Sonnenby argued. He rolled one shoulder as if to demonstrate.
“It struck him in the back,” Marshall insisted. “It knocked him down. Damn you, Henry. Don’t lie to her anymore.”
“Quiet, Archie. Save your breath.” Sonnenby didn’t sound like a man who had been shot.
The suture material was in a glass jar filled with alcohol. Elsa opened it and selected a length and a needle.
“What do you men do when you don’t travel with a nurse?” She mumbled. She didn’t expect an answer. She eyed the length of catgut and snipped it with the scissors.
Sonnenby said quietly, “We die.”
She glanced at him before bending over Marshall’s neck. “Indeed.”
To Marshall she said, “Hold still. This will sting a little.”
Sonnenby snorted. Descartes knelt on the other side of Marshall and put a hand on his head to hold him still.
Marshall objected to the hand on his head. “I will not move,” he said.
Descartes removed his hand. “Are you Archibald Marshall?” he asked the Englishman.
“I am,” Marshall answered. He closed his eyes and swallowed hard.
“When Nurse Schluss is finished, I have a parcel for you from Damascus.”
Marshall’s eyes opened again. “A parcel?”
“I was instructed to bring you a briefcase. It contains medical files and a blue silk beaded ball gown.”
Both men turned to look at Elsa. Marshall winced when he moved his neck.
“The gown is a gift,” Marshall said in a croaking voice.
“It is true?” Descartes asked. “Shall I give it to her instead?”
“Yes, give it to her.”
She doused the wound with the whiskey and touched the needle to flesh. Marshall jumped. “Mr. Marshall…” she said. She waited for him to calm himself, then tried again. This time he lay still as death until she finished. The whiskey had been passed around after it left her hand. The bottle came back nearly empty. She eyed it before pouring a measured amount onto Marshall’s neck. “Have some,” she put the bottle in his hand and pressed his fingers around the glass. Descartes helped him to sit up by bracing his shoulders and holding the back of his head. Marshall downed it all. She patted his arm and then put Descartes’ kit right. “You were a centimeter from being a dead man, Mr. Marshall,” she told him as she snapped the kit shut. “Your carotid lies just beneath that nicked muscle.”
Sonnenby gave him a healthy pat on the back and Descartes gave him a squeeze on the upper arm. Sonnenby said, “It was intense for a few minutes in the village. Seems like hours when it happens. It is terrible for everyone involved. Horrible.”
Marshall looked up at him, moving only his eyes and careful not to move his neck. “But I see that your trousers are dry.”
Sonnenby grinned and patted him on the back again. “Among soldiers, Archie, we call that the ‘holy baptism’.” But his grin faded quickly.
Elsa got to her feet. “Rest, Mr. Marshall. Stay down for a few minutes.” She turned to Sonnenby. “How long before they come after you?”
“The plane will fly over Deir El Zor any minute, now that dawn has come. When the pilot sees that the trucks have been turned over and burned and the machine guns are gone and the bodies mutilated in the streets, he will fly back and report it. I guess it will take at least three days for the French or the English to mobilize and return with armored cars and more guns and planes. And bombs. The English have bombs, but not locally. They will have to be moved from the depot. We have three days.”
“Bombs?” Elsa hugged herself.
Sonnenby put an arm over her shoulders. “We will be gone by then.”
“Where?” She looked around. There was the river to the east. To the west Damascus and the French regiment. To the north, El Zor and to the south the desert.
He squeezed her. “Don’t worry.”
Elsa slapped his arm away and took a step back. “Zum Teufel with your ‘don’t worry’!” Descartes started to laugh but stopped when Elsa glared at him as well.
“Schatze,” Sonnenby soothed. “We go into the wilderness. I won’t let them get you.”
“No,” she said. “They won’t ‘get me’. I am not worried that they will ‘get me’.” She ran a hand through her hair and moved past them all to collect her briefcase by the door. “What about Mr. Mehmet’s wives and children? There is an infant in there.” She looked at each of them.
Sonnenby said something to the remaining tribesmen who apparently agreed, for one of them called to the women inside the house while the other began to fill his water bags at the well. Sonnenby then said to her, “These men are Mehmet’s cousins. They will take his family to his brother’s house. The boys are there already. Mehmet would have sent them yesterday, but he knew he had you to care for.”
She was speechless for a moment before she asked, “He endangered his family for me?”
“He did it for me, actually.” Sonnenby said before turning around and facing Descartes. “Who are you?”
The geologist extended a hand and Sonnenby took it. “I am Jean-Philippe Descartes, no relation.”
They shook hands and Sonnenby asked, “What are you doing here?”
“I am in the employ of the Republic of France. I am here to look after national interests, much like Mr. Marshall, here.”
“I see,” Sonnenby said. “You understand that from the air you will look like an Englishman or a German to the pilots?”
Descartes laughed without humor. “As a matter of fact, I do know. I spent twenty minutes in a wadi yesterday pondering that very thought. I should paint the Eiffel Tower on the top of my hat so at least the French pilots won’t shoot me.”
“That damned tower looks like a huge oil derrick.” Sonnenby said dryly and Descartes laughed loudly this time. Sonnenby continued, “You will come with us. You don’t want to be anywhere near here. Do you know Maysalun?”
Descartes’ face became very still and his laughter ended abruptly. “I was there.”
“You won’t want to be there again,” Sonnenby said. “We go south and east.”
“There are not enough horses.” Descartes waved a hand at Elsa.
“She will ride with me. That your pack?” He pointed to the canvas pile by the door.
“It is.”
“You have food in there?”
“No,” Descartes’ face fell. “Mehmet promised me supplies in return for…” he stopped.
Sonnenby lifted the edge of the canvas and flipped it back. His eyes passed over the crates quickly and stopped at the long box. “Guns.”
“Some.”
“More than supplies were offered to pay for this, I think.” Sonnenby flipped the canvas back to cover the box.
“Gold, too.” The two men stared eye to eye.
“I thought so. You are a traitor to your government monsieur?”
Elsa thought these might be fighting words so she stepped forward, ready to leap between the two men if necessary to stop a scuffle. But Descartes appeared to have no reaction to the word ‘traitor’. They both turned to look at her as she moved.
“Don’t let him get his hands on you, monsieur,” she gasped out. “He can kill you with his hands.”
“I am not going to kill him.” Sonnenby appeared puzzled and a little hurt.
“You pulled a gun on him just now!”
Descartes broke the tension with a laugh. “Mademoiselle, monsieur, I assure you I am not offended. And yes, I am a traitor to my government. I have been in the Levant twenty years. I have received nothing but courtesy and hospitality and deep friendship from the people here, more so than I ever received at home.” His voice became bitter. “After Maysalun I am no longer a Frenchman.”
Sonnenby extended a hand to him again and Descartes took it. “We have an understanding, then.”
“This is outrageous,” Marshall was sitting up, holding his neck. “We are surrounded by raiders, thieves and murderers. Look what the Turks did to the Armenians.”
Sonnenby and Elsa and Descartes stood and stared at him. Descartes and Sonnenby exchanged a glance and Sonnenby said, “Churchill sent a memo condoning the use of poison gas to exterminate the people who live on top of the oil. According to my government, the oil belongs to Britain.”
Descartes said, “According to my government, the oil belongs to France.”
Marshall held a hand over his throat. “And there are four corporations who want all of it. The Germans knew what they were doing, damn them to hell.”
Elsa, who had never been political in her life, stomped her foot. “How dare you! Spices in India, opium in China, diamonds in Africa! I should…”
“Please, please,” soothed Descartes, “let us not start another great war.”
Elsa crossed her arms over her chest. “Then do not say such things to me.”
Sonnenby turned away from them and collected Descartes’ pack horse and walked the animal back to the house. He said softly, “It was the death of your prince that started this whole damned thing, Schatze.”
“His murder,” she snapped. She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.
Descartes took her elbow. “Don’t cry, don’t cry,” he wiped her eyes with a handkerchief he took from his pocket.
Sonnenby stopped. “What? Is she crying?” He dropped the reins and too
k Elsa away from Descartes and held her to his chest. “Schatze, Schatze, forgive me. I only wanted to stop you from arguing with Archie. Please.” He stroked her hair and she felt him kiss the top of her head. “You can never win an argument with Marshall.”
She sniffed and blinked until the constriction in her throat relaxed enough so she could speak. “It was unseemly to discuss politics at a time like this.” At least that is what she meant to say. It sounded like babbled words to her when they came out of her mouth, but Sonnenby gave her a little squeeze as though he knew what she meant. But how could he know? He couldn’t know.
A hand on her wrist made her turn around again. Marshall had gotten up and walked over to them. He was looking at her with sad eyes. “I am sorry, Fraulein Schluss. Please accept my apology. I am not myself.”
She bent her head. “It is I who should apologize.”
“Stop. All of you. The war is over.” Descartes had his mare packed and was leading her toward his other horse.
Marshall pressed his lips together in a straight line and his eyes darted over everything and everyone without moving his neck. Finally they rested on Elsa.
“There is something I must do before we leave,” he said to her.
Sonnenby agreed. “You need to change your pants. One moment,” he said. He stepped into Mehmet’s house and said something in Arabic to the women. When he came out he held a pair of men’s trousers. “You can wear these,” he said. Mehmet will be in Bedouin dress for the rest of his life. He won’t need these again.”
Marshall took the trousers from him and both men locked eyes. “That is not what I meant, but thank you,” he said.
Elsa immediately went for Marshall’s belt buckle but he stopped her with his hand. “I can change my own trousers, fraulein.”
She disagreed. “You should not bend your neck, Mr. Marshall, and you have lost a great deal of blood. You will need assistance to keep from fainting.”
“I will help him,” Sonnenby told her. “There are some things a man would rather not reveal to a woman until he knows her better.” He was trying to make light of it, but Marshall’s eyes reflected the memory of a Bedouin knife at his throat. Elsa did not argue.
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