by Talbot Mundy
“I knew you, Rustum Khan, the minute I set eyes on you. Why were you beating this man?”
“Sahib bahadur, because he wrote in his book that people in France should pray for me in church, naming my honorable name, because, says he — but I will not repeat what he says. It is not seemly.”
“How do you know what is in his diary?” Monty asked.
“That German read it out to me. We were sitting, he and I, discussing how the Turks intend to butcher the Armenians, as all the world knows is written. They say it shall happen soon. Said he to me — the German said to me— ‘I know another,’ said he, ‘who if I had my way should suffer first in that event.’ Saying which he showed the written book that he had found, and read me parts of it. The German was for denouncing the fellow as a friend of Armenians, but I was for beating him at once, and I had my way.”
“Where is the book?” demanded Monty.
“The German has it.”
“The German has no right to it.”
“I will bring it.”
Rustum Khan strode off into the night, and Monty bent over the sobbing form of the self-appointed missionary. We were all alone in the midst of the courtyard, not even watched from behind the wheels of arabas, for a fight or a thrashing in the khans of Asia Minor is strictly the affair of him who gets the worst of it.
“Will you burn that book of yours, Measel, if we protect you from further assault?”
The man sobbed that he would do anything, but Monty held him to the point, and at last procured a specific affirmative. Then Rustum Khan came back with the offending tome. It was bulky enough to contain an account of the sins of Asia Minor.
Fred and I picked the poor fellow up and led him to where the cooking places stood in one long row. Will carried the book, and Rustum Khan stole wood from other folks’ piles, and fanned a fire. We watched the unhappy Peter Measel put the book on the flames with his own hands.
“You’re old enough to have known better than keep such a diary!” said Monty, stirring the charred pages.
“I am at any rate a martyr!” Measel answered.
The man could walk by that time — he was presumably abstemious and recovered from shock quickly. Monty sent me to see him to his room, which turned out to be next the German’s, and until Will came over from our quarters with first-aid stuff from our chest I spent the minutes telling the German what should happen to him in case he should so far forget discretion as to resume the offensive. He said nothing in reply, but sat in his doorway looking up at me with an expression intended to make me feel nervous of reprisals without committing him to deeds.
Later, when we had done our best for “the martyred biped Measel,” as Fred described him, Will and I found Rustum Khan with Fred and Monty seated around the charcoal brazier in Monty’s room, deep in the valley of reminiscences. Our entry rather broke the spell, but Rustum Khan was not to be denied.
“You used to tell in those days, Colonel sahib bahadur,” he said, addressing Monty with that full-measured compliment that the chivalrous, old East still cherishes, “of a castle of your ancestors in these parts. Do you remember, when I showed you the ruins of my family place in Rajputana, how you stood beside me on the heights, sahib, and vowed some day to hunt for that Crusaders’ nest, as you called it?”
“That is the immediate purpose of this trip of ours,” said Monty.
“Ah!” said the Rajput, and was silent for about a minute. Fred Oakes began to hum through his nose. He has a ridiculous belief that doing that throws keen inquirers off a scent.
“Colonel sahib, since I was a little butcha not as high as your knee I have spoken English and sat at the feet of British officers. Little enough I know, but by the beard of God’s prophet I know this: when a British colonel sahib speaks of ‘immediate purposes,’ there are hidden purposes of greater importance!”
“That well may be,” said Monty gravely. “I remember you always were a student of significant details, Rustum Khan.”
“There was a time when I was in your honor’s confidence.”
Monty smiled.
“That was years ago. What are you doing here, Rustum Khan?”
“A fair enough question! I hang my head. As you know, sahib, I am a rangar. My people were all Sikhs for several generations back. We converts to Islam are usually more thorough-going than born Moslems are. I started to make the pilgrimage to Mecca, riding overland alone by way of Persia. As I came, missing few opportunities to talk with men, who should have been the lights of my religion, I have felt enthusiasm waning. These weeks past I have contemplated return without visiting Mecca at all. I have wandered to and fro, hoping for the fervor back again, yet finding none. And now, sahib, I find you — I, Rustum Khan, at a loose end for lack of inspiration. I have prayed. Colonel sahib bahadur, I believe thou art the gift of God!”’
Monty sought our eyes in turn in the lantern-lit darkness. We made no sign. None of us but he knew the Rajput, so it was plainly his affair.
“Suit yourself,” said Will, and the rest of us nodded.
“We are traveling into the interior,” said Monty, “in the rather doubtful hope that our absence from a coast city may in some way help Armenians, Rustum Khan.”
The Rajput jumped to his feet that instant, and came to the salute.
“I might have known as much. Colonel Lord Montdidier sahib, I offer fealty! My blood be thine to spill in thy cause! Thy life on my head — thine honor on my life — thy way my way, and God be my witness!”
“Don’t be rash, Rustum Khan. Our likeliest fate is to be taken prisoner by men of your religion, who will call you a renegade if you defend Armenians. And what are Armenians to you?”
“Ah, sahib! You drive a sharp spur into an open sore! I have seen too much of ill-faith — cruelty — robbery — torture — rapine — butchery, all in the name of God! It is this last threat to the Armenians that is the final straw! I took the pilgrimage in search of grace. The nearer I came to the place they tell me is on earth the home of grace, the more unfaith I see! Three nights ago in another place I was led aside and offered the third of the wealth of a fat Armenian if I would lend my sword to slit helpless throats — in the name of God, the compassionate, be merciful! My temper was about spoilt forever when that young idiot over the way described me in his book as — never mind how he described me — he paid the price! Sahib bahadur, I take my stand with the defenseless, where I know thou and thy friends will surely be! I am thy man!”
“It is not included in our plans to fight,” said Monty.
“Sahib, there is always work for real soldiers!”
“What do you fellows say? Shall we let him come with us?”
“I travel at my own charges, sahib. I am well mounted and well armed.”
“Sure, let him come with us!” said Will. “I like the man.”
“He has my leave to come along to England afterward,” said Fred, “if he’ll guarantee to address me as the ‘gift of God’ in public!”
I left them talking and returned to see whether the “martyred biped Measel” needed further help. He was asleep, and as I listened to his breathing I heard voices in the next room. The German was talking in English, that being often the only tongue that ten men have in common. Through the partly opened door I could see that his room was crammed with men.
“They are spies, every one of them!” I heard him say. “The man I thrashed is of their party. You yourselves saw how they came to his rescue, and seduced the Indian by means of threats. This is the way of the English. (“Curse them!” said a voice.) They write notes in a book, and when that offense is detected they burn the book in a corner, as ye saw them do. I saw the book before they burned it. I thrashed the spy who wrote in the book because he had written in it reports on what it is proposed to do to infidels at the time ye know about. I tell you those men are all spies — one is as bad as the other. They work on behalf of Armenians, to bring about interference from abroad.”
That he had already produced
an atmosphere of danger to us I had immediate proof, for as I crossed the yard again I dodged behind an araba in the nick of time to avoid a blow aimed at me with a sword by a man I could not see.
“All your charming is undone!” I told Fred, bursting in on our party by the charcoal brazier. Almost breathless I reeled off what I had overheard. “They’ll be here to murder us by dawn!” I said.
“Will they?” said Monty.
We were up and away two hours before dawn, to the huge delight of our Turkish muleteers, who consider a dawn start late, yet not too early for the servants of the khan, who knew enough European manners to stand about the gate and beg for tips. Nor were we quite too early for the enemy, who came out into the open and pelted us with clods of dung, the German encouraging from the roof. Fred caught him unaware full in the face with a well-aimed piece of offal. Then the khan keeper slammed the gate behind us and we rode into the unknown.
Chapter Four “We are the robbers, effendi!”
THE ROAD
There is a mystery concerning roads
And he who loves the Road shall never tire.
For him the brooks have voices and the breeze
Brings news of far-off leafiness and leas
And vales all blossomy. The clinging mire
Shall never weary such an one, nor yet their loads
O’ercome the beasts that serve him. Rock and rill
Shall make the pleasant league go by as hours
With secret tales they tell; the loosened stone,
Sweet turf upturned, the bees’ full-purposed drone,
The hum of happy insects among flowers,
And God’s blue sky to crown each hill!
Dawn with her jewel-throated birds
To him shall be a new page in the Book
That never had beginning nor shall end,
And each increasing hour delights shall lend —
New notes in every sound — in every nook
New sights —— new thoughts too wide for words,
Too deep for pen, too high for human song,
That only in the quietness of winding ways
From tumult and all bitterness apart
Can find communication with the heart —
Thoughts that make joyous moments of the days,
And no road heavy, and no journey long!
The snow threatened in the mountains had not materialized, and the weather had changed to pure perfection. About an hour after we started the khan emptied itself behind us in a long string, jingling and clanging with horse and camel bells. But they turned northward to pass through the famed Circassian Gates, whereas we followed the plain that paralleled the mountain range — our mules’ feet hidden by eight inches of primordial ooze.
“Wish it were only worse!” said Monty. “Snow or rain might postpone massacre. Delay might mean cancellation.”
But there was no prospect whatever of rain. The Asia Minor spring, perfumed and amazing sweet, breathed all about us, spattered with little diamond-bursts of tune as the larks skyrocketed to let the wide world know how glad they were. Whatever dark fate might be brooding over a nation, it was humanly impossible for us to feel low-spirited.
Our Zeitoonli Armenians trudged through the mud behind us at a splendid pace — mountain-men with faces toward their hills. The Turks — owners of the animals another man had hired to us — rode perched on top of the loads in stoic silence, changing from mule to mule as the hours passed and watching very carefully that no mule should be overtaxed or chilled. In fact, the first attempt they made to enter into conversation with us was when we dallied to admire a view of Taurus Mountain, and one of them closed up to tell us the mules were catching cold in the wind. (If they had been our animals it might have been another story.)
Their contempt for the Zeitoonli was perfectly illustrated by the difference in situation. They rode; the Armenians walked. Yet the Armenians were less afraid; and when we crossed a swollen ford where a mule caught his forefoot between rocks and was drowning, it was Armenians, not Turks, who plunged into the icy water and worked him free without straining as much as a tendon.
The Turks were obsessed by perpetual fear of robbers. That, and no other motive, made them tolerate the hectoring of Rustum Khan, who had constituted himself officer of transport, and brought up the rear on his superb bay mare. As he had promised us he would, he rode well armed, and the sight of his pistol holsters, the rifle protruding stock-first from a leather case, and his long Rajput saber probably accomplished more than merely keeping Turks in countenance; it prevented them from scattering and bolting home.
His own baggage was packed on two mules in charge of an Armenian boy, who was more afraid of our Turks than they of robbers. Yet, when we demanded of our muleteers what sort of men, and of what nation the dreaded highwaymen might be they pointed at Rustum Khan’s lean servant. At the khan the night before one of them had pointed out to Monty two Circassians and a Kurd as reputed to have a monopoly of robbery on all those roads. Nevertheless, they made the new accusation without blinking.
“All robbers are Armenians — all Armenians are robbers!” they assured us gravely.
When we halted for a meal they refused to eat with our Zeitoonli, although they graciously permitted them to gather all the firewood, and accepted pieces of their pasderma (sun-dried meat) as if that were their due. As soon as they had eaten, and before we had finished, Ibrahim, their grizzled senior, came to us with a new demand. On its face it was not outrageous, because we were doing our own cooking, as any man does who has ever peeped into a Turkish servant’s behind-the-scene arrangements.
“Send those Armenians away!” he urged. “We Turks are worth twice their number!”
“By the beard of God’s prophet!” thundered Rustum Khan, “who gave camp-followers the right to impose advice?”
“They are in league with highwaymen to lead you into a trap!” Ibrahim answered.
Rustum Khan rattled the saber that lay on the rock beside him.
“I am hunting for fear,” he said. “All my life I have hunted for fear and never found it!”
“Pekki!” said Ibrahim dryly. The word means “very well.” The tone implied that when the emergency should come we should do well not to depend on him, for he had warned us.
We were marching about parallel with the course the completed Baghdad railway was to take, and there were frequent parties of surveyors and engineers in sight. Once we came near enough to talk with the German in charge of a party, encamped very sumptuously near his work. He had a numerous armed guard of Turks.
“A precaution against robbers?” Monty asked, and I did not hear what the German answered.
Rustum Khan laughed and drew me aside.
“Every German in these parts has a guard to protect him from his own men, sahib! For a while on my journey westward I had charge of a camp of recruited laborers. Therefore I know.”
The German was immensely anxious to know all about us and our intentions. He told us his name was Hans von Quedlinburg, plainly expecting us to be impressed.
“I can direct you to good quarters, where you can rest comfortably at every stage, if you will tell me your direction,” he said.
But we did not tell him. Later, while we ate a meal, he came and questioned our Turks very closely; but since they were in ignorance they did not tell him either.
“Why do you travel with Armenian servants?” he asked us finally before we moved away.
“We like ’em,” said Monty.
“They’ll only get you in trouble. We’ve dismissed all Armenian laborers from the railway works. Not trustworthy, you know. Our agents are out recruiting Moslems.”
“What’s the matter with Armenians?”
“Oh, don’t you know?”
“I’m asking.”
The German shrugged his shoulders.
“I’ll tell you one thing. This will illustrate. I had an Armenian clerk. He worked all day in my tent. A week ago I found him reading among
my private papers. That proves you can’t trust an Armenian.”
“Ample evidence!” said Monty without a smile, but Fred laughed as we rode away, and the German stared after us with a new set of emotions pictured on his heavy face.
Late in the afternoon we passed through a village in which about two hundred Armenian men and women were holding a gathering in a church large enough to hold three times the number. One of them saw us coming, and they all trooped out to meet us, imagining we were officials of some kind.
“Effendi,” said their pastor with a trembling hand on Monty’s saddle, “the Turks in this village have been washing their white garments!”
We had heard in Tarsus what that ceremony meant.
“It means, effendi, they believe their purpose holy! What shall we do — what shall we do?”
“Why not go into Tarsus and claim protection at the British consulate?” suggested Fred.
“But our friends of Tarsus warn us the worst fury of all will be in the cities!”
“Take to the hills, then!” Monty advised him.
“But how can we, sir? How can we? We have homes — property — children! We are watched. The first attempt by a number of us to escape to the hills would bring destruction down on all!”
“Then escape to the hills by twos and threes. You ask my advice — I give it.”
It looked like very good advice. The slopes of the foot-hills seemed covered by a carpet of myrtle scrub, in which whole armies could have lain in ambush. And above that the cliffs of the Kara Dagh rose rocky and wild, suggesting small comfort but sure hiding-places.
“You’ll never make me believe you Armenians haven’t hidden supplies,” said Monty. “Take to the hills until the fury is over!”
But the old man shook his head, and his people seemed at one with him. These were not like our Zeitoonli, but wore the settled gloom of resignation that is poor half-brother to Moslem fanaticism, caught by subjection and infection from the bullying Turk. There was nothing we could do at that late hour to overcome the inertia produced by centuries, and we rode on, ourselves infected to the verge of misery. Only our Zeitoonli, striding along like men on holiday, retained their good spirits, and they tried to keep up ours by singing their extraordinary songs.