Complete Works of Talbot Mundy

by Talbot Mundy

  Captain de Crespigny came out of the Governorate to greet us, smiling all over as a man should whose only dependable assistant has the tooth-ache.

  “You know the wire is down behind you?” he said pleasantly.

  “Since when?”

  “An hour ago. I’m rather worried about a Jew named Cohen. I let him start for Jerusalem this morning. ‘Fraid now he may get scuppered on the way.”

  “It’s all right; we met him. He’s on his way back.”

  “Oh, did you get wind of trouble here?”

  “Not a thing. Wanted Cohen here for a special reason. What’s up?”

  “I tried to phone through to Jerusalem for a machine gun. There’s nobody to send. We’ve a motor-cycle, but it’s napoo. That fellow Cohen lost his watch and I arrested a local Arab on suspicion soon after Cohen had gone. He’s over there in the jail now and four thousand of his friends have sworn an oath to take him out again by force. I’ve ten policemen — one first-class man and nine with the wind up them.”

  “Are you sure the wire’s down?” Grim asked him.

  “Perfectly. I’d call that luck, only now you’ve come. They couldn’t exactly have blamed me for bluffing the business through without orders and I think I could have tackled it. However, I suppose you take over?”

  “Not if I know it!” Grim answered. “Make over to me when you’ve had enough, but no sooner.”

  “Thanks. Come in and have a drink. Who’s your friend?”

  “Ramsden — a countryman of mine.”

  Grim introduced me and for the hundredth time in that man’s land I experienced the unmitigated delight of being accepted as an equal, instead of as a possibly objectionable person, on the strength of his mere say-so. As a general rule you can’t get past that suave screen the British use to camouflage their real thoughts, without a guide whom they know and trust; but when you’re in, you’re in.

  De Crespigny was nothing unusual; clean-shaven, almost always laughing about something, looking about twenty although really twenty-six, probably not brilliant, but capable of swift judgment and astounding impudence in tight places. Obviously one of those well-bred young gentlemen, who have kept an empire’s borders by daring and straight dealing while the politicians did the bragging and the profiteers made hay. He wore several ribbons for distinguished service, but the only thing he seemed really proud of was a mixture he called a Hebron cocktail, made without ice from a recipe of his own invention.

  It was a comfortable room we entered, for the Germans had left their furniture behind them and the walls were hung besides with deadly weapons taken away from the local cut-throats by this de Crespigny child, his one assistant, the one bold native policeman and the “nine with the wind up them.”

  The assistant came in while we watched the secret ritual of cocktail shaking in an ex-beer bottle; another boy, two years younger than his chief and, barring the tooth-ache, even more amused by the certainty that mass-murder was afoot. You could sum him up instantly. When a man thinks of his job first, and tooth-ache merely as a handicap, bet on him. Besides his name was Jones and that is a well-known label.

  “Just come from the jail,” he announced. “Had to put Ali ben Hamza in a cell by himself; he was propaganding among the other prisoners. Perfectly friendly, though; assured me that you and I will both be dead before morning and offered to pull my tooth out with his fingers. Said he hated to see me suffer and that having your throat cut doesn’t hurt a bit.”

  “Thought you were going to the doctor,” said de Crespigny.

  “No time. He has his hands full anyhow. Hospital’s chock-a- block, and no one to help him operate. Any news?”

  “Wire’s down.”

  “Oh, good! That means Jerusalem can’t interfere and tell us not to do things. But—” glancing at Grim and me “ — are you still in charge, ‘Crep?”

  “I’ve no orders to take over,” Grim assured him. “De Crespigny may pass the buck when he sees fit.”

  “Pretty decent of you.”

  “Suppose you fellows put me wise, though,” Grim suggested. “We’ll call it unofficial, but in case of need it might be wholesome for me to know the facts.”

  “It’s all very simple,” said de Crespigny. “Aaron Cohen came here with a scheme for exporting Arabs to your country to make room for Jews. He offers to buy out their holdings for cash, to arrange their passage to the States, get passports for them and all that, and provide them with good land to settle on at the other end on easy terms. Perfectly fair and above-board if they wanted to do it, but they don’t.

  “On top of that, the Jews in this place are Orthodox and hate the Zionists worse than they do pork. They made the mistake of telling the Arabs that Cohen was no good, whereas he’s quite a decent fellow really, if it weren’t for his infernal cheek. No need to tell you what the Moslems of this place are like. They stole Cohen’s watch for a joke and he said what he thought of them. They admit the truth of all he said — you know how engagingly frank they are about themselves — but take exception to criticism by any kind of Jew.

  “Now they say that the Orthodox Jews put Cohen up to it and only went back on him afterwards because they were afraid. They say it’s really the Orthodox Jews of this place who are planning to get their holdings; and as most of them owe money to the Jews they propose to make short work of the lot of them. They’ve cut the wire to prevent our phoning for Sikhs and machine guns and the game is probably scheduled to begin tonight.”

  Before de Crespigny had finished speaking two men came into the room and one of them, obviously a middle-aged Scotsman, sat down without waiting to be invited. The other, an Arab long past middle age, remained standing. Grim made a sign to me that I interpreted as a call to behave in keeping with the Arab costumes we were wearing and I hid my face as much as I reasonably could in the folds of the kufiyi.

  “Allah ysabbak bilkhair! [God give you a happy morning!]” the old Arab began as soon as he could get a word in.

  “Ahlan wasah’lan! [A thousand times welcome!]” said de Crespigny. “What is it, Yussuf?”

  “You young men go! Go to your mothers! Go home and marry wives!”

  “Why this sudden interest in our future, Yussuf?”

  “It is not sudden. I am an old man, and have seen many young men die. I have yet to see the good that came of killing them. Go home.”

  “Men die when their time comes,” said de Crespigny. “Moreover, they don’t marry wives in my land until the woman is willing. I’ve got no money and the girls won’t look at me.”

  “It is not good to answer with jests when an old man speaks in earnest. I, who must see death soon in the natural course of things, advise you as a father speaking to his sons. Go home. It is better to beget sons than to die young.”

  “You old raven! What are you croaking about?”

  The Arab stroked his gray beard and thought a minute before he answered. Then:

  “I have seen the blood flow in the runnels of the streets of El- Kalil like red storm-water. I was here when the Turks took vengeance on the city for certain matters. I have seen the seven districts of the city at war with one another and the executions afterwards. All those are as nothing in comparison to what comes! It is written that not one Jew shall remain alive in El-Kalil!”

  “Any date to that prophecy?” asked de Crespigny quite calmly.

  “They are whetting the swords now!”

  “They’ll have us to reckon with before they begin on the Jews.”

  “Truly, my son. Therefore go, before the sacrifice begins! What can you few do against so many? Can you send for help? I think not. I am told the wire is cut. Could a horseman or man on foot get through to Jerusalem alive? Not he! They would let you escape, but not your messenger; and if you stay, you die!”

  “Supposing I chose to run away, they’d be fools to let me,” de Crespigny answered. “There’d be lorry-loads of Sikhs here two or three hours after I reached Jerusalem.”

  “And the Sikhs will b
ury the dead Jews! Listen, my son. You British are not Turks. Who in this place is afraid of British vengeance, after living under the Turk’s heel so many years? The Sikhs will come and shoot a handful. There will be a trial, at which every witness will tell lies. Those who have the fewest friends will be convicted; some will be hanged and some imprisoned. For four thousand Jews slain will forty Moslems hang? Better go before the sacrifice begins!”

  “You go back into the city,” said de Crespigny, as calmly as if he were ordering the streets cleaned, “and tell your friends this: There’s only one authority in this place, and that’s me! Say they have me to deal with before they can start on the Jews!”

  “You and these few and ten policemen!” The old Arab smiled and spread out his hands in a gesture of something like despair. “They will go first to the jail, pillage it and set the prisoners free. Next they will come here, for there are rifles here and cartridges. In less time than the muezzin needs to cry his summons they will slay you and take the rifles. After, the Jews! And after that, if it is written that the Sikhs shall come, then that is written, and who shall stay the hand of God?”

  “Go and tell them to come here first before they try the jail,” said de Crespigny calmly. “That is all I have to say. Go and tell them.”

  “Allah ysallmak! [God save you!]” said the Arab sadly.

  “Allah yihfazak! [God keep you!]” de Crespigny replied, and the old man turned and went.

  “Doc,” said de Crespigny, turning toward the Scotsman, “there are two camels outside. Better take them. Put Miss Gordon on one and you and she make a break for Jerusalem. This situation looks none too good.”

  Doctor Cameron laughed dryly, wrinkling up his eyes as he looked keenly at each of us in turn. He was a big man, with a powerful head and a firm, good- tempered mouth under a scraggly gray moustache. He looked like an old soldier, but had never actually worn any other uniform than the mask and apron of the operating-room.

  “Five-and-twenty years I’ve been here,” he replied. “Can you see me running away?”

  “But the nurse — Miss Gordon?”

  “She’s a fine girl. She’ll stand by. Ask her if you’d rather. I’ll not interfere.”

  “Better send her to this place, then.”

  “You young Hector! She’s safer in my hospital. They’ll do no murder there; we’re far too useful to them. I stood by them through the war as a Turks’ prisoner; they’ll remember that. There’s hardly a man in Hebron hasn’t been to me for help at one time or another. But what do you lads propose to do?”

  “Brazen it out,” said de Crespigny.

  “You’ll need all your brass, I’m thinking.” He looked hard at Jones. “That boy’s in no fit state to give the best that’s in him. I brought my bag with me. Let me see that lower jaw.”

  He took Jones’ head in capable, enormous hands and tilted it toward the light.

  “Open. Wider. Um-m-m! Sit on that stool. Reach me the bag, de Crespigny.”

  He unwrapped a lancet and a pair of ugly forceps, then got behind Jones and gripped his head firmly between his knees.

  “By rights ye ought to have an anaesthetic for a job like this, but your mother had to endure a lot worse when ye came into the world. We’ll see if you’re half as good a man as your mother. Now!”

  It was a bloody business and not convenient to watch, but we all looked on like spectators at a play, pretending not to feel the skin creep up our spines. It was several minutes before the last piece of a broken tooth was tossed into the brass basin that a servant brought.

  “Now lie down. If I ever meet your mother I’ll tell the lady that her labor was worthwhile. Ye’ll feel finely by and by. He might have an ounce or two of whisky.”

  He wrapped up his tools, turned down his shirt-sleeves, and started for the door.

  “If I can be of any further use, my boys, ye’ll know where to find me. The best advice I can give is, always let the Arab know you’re not afraid of him, and make him suspect ye’ve something in reserve. And by the way — ye’d better all join me at the hospital, if things look too bad. I think the rascals will respect that place. There’ll be bad news from Jerusalem before night or my name isn’t Cameron.”

  De Crespigny glanced swiftly at Grim. Grim nodded. That was puzzling, for there had been no signs of disturbance that I could see when we came away that morning.

  Cameron jerked his head and snapped his fingers in the doorway. “They’d never talk so bold here if they didn’t know of trouble brewing in Jerusalem to keep the troops occupied,” he said, and strode out as if any sort of trouble were the merest commonplace.

  I found it utterly impossible, sitting in that quiet room, to believe that we were in imminent danger; but that may have been because I had no official job to lose if everything should go wrong. A man doesn’t fear for his life as a rule until the raw facts stare him in the face; it is economic and administrative problems that cause terror in advance. I thought that even Grim, who hardly ever shows more emotion than the proverbial red Indian in times of stress, looked serious.

  And someone else arrived just then, who took no trouble to conceal his feelings. Aaron Cohen had himself announced by the Arab servant and followed him into the room without waiting for an invitation. He did not speak at first, but stood looking from one to the other of us with an expression on his face mixed of comedy and desperation.

  “Nice way to bring a feller back to this place!” he said at last. “I went to the hotel and they wouldn’t let me in. Said they’d trouble enough in store without me. Gave me a fine talk, they did. Pogrom — that’s the name of it! Down at that hotel they’re saying all the Jews in Hebron will be dead before morning and they’re blaming me for it. What have I done?” He faced Grim and glared at him. “D’you call that acting on the level, to bring me back to this place when you knew what was in the air?”

  “You’d never have reached Jerusalem alive,” said de Crespigny.

  “Has that young feller been knifed?” asked Cohen, pointing at Jones on the couch. He was still spitting blood at intervals, so the question was excusable.

  “Sit down, Cohen,” Grim answered. “You’re as safe here as anywhere at present. Will you have his bag brought in, de Crespigny? Now, Cohen, you didn’t start this trouble, but your talk brought it to a head. It’s up to us to smooth the thing out if we can, but it’s going to be no joking matter. I’m asking you to keep quiet and to help us if there’s an opportunity. Will you?”

  “Sure, I’ll help,” said Cohen. “But what can I do?”

  “Dunno yet,” Grim answered. “Captain de Crespigny’s in charge. We’ll see.”

  CHAPTER II. “These are two good boys.”

  THE Scots doctor’s prognostications were proven accurate sooner than expected. Rumor travels on swallow’s wings in that land and almost as soon as Cohen’s bag had been carried in there came a native policeman looking pallid under the bronze, who saluted precisely and then talked to de Crespigny and Jones with the familiarity of an old nurse to children.

  “Word has come that the Jews in Jerusalem are massacring Moslems! Shall ten of us prevent the Moslems here from turning the tables on the Jews? Better let it be known at once that we intend to stand aside. Then let them get the business over with. Afterward will be the proper time to make arrests.”

  He looked like a perfectly good policeman, but there had not been time enough yet to educate out of him Turkish notions of convenience.

  “Who brought the news?” asked de Crespigny.

  “He is outside.”

  “Bring him in.”

  A burly-looking ruffian with more white to his eye than sheer straightforwardness begets, clad in a smelly sheepskin coat and with a long knife tucked into his sash, was ushered in and stood uncomfortably in the middle of the room.

  “Are you from Jerusalem?” de Crespigny asked him.

  “Yes.”

  “Since when?”

  “I have just come.”

  “A
nd you left Hebron after seven o’clock this morning to my knowledge! Have you got so virtuous and truthful that you’ve suddenly grown wings?”

  “I went half-way and met three men, who said the Jews of Jerusalem have risen and have already killed three thousand Moslems. So I came back.”

  “To talk about it, eh? Well, if I hear of your repeating such a lie in Hebron I’ll clap you in the jail, d’ you understand me? Go home and hold your tongue.”

  “Taib [All right].”

  The man slouched out again, but three more reports arrived by way of the back door within the next ten minutes, the last one giving the total of slain at exactly four thousand eight hundred and one Moslems, adding that the Jews were parading through Jerusalem in triumph.

  “All of which probably means that a Jew has been killed and the Moslems are looting,” Grim commented quietly.

  The next alarm was a message from the Arab jailer to say that his prisoners were getting out of hand and that a crowd was collecting outside the jail.

  Jones volunteered to go and investigate, but before he could leave the room two policemen came running in with word that the crowd was swarming up- street toward the Governorate. We could hear them a moment later. They were taking their time about it, singing as they came, pausing at intervals to dance a few steps in measure and then surging on. The song was like the Carmagnole of the Terror. De Crespigny got up from his chair — thought better of it — sat down again and lighted a cigarette. After that he passed the case around and we each took one, Cohen included.

  “What’s going to happen?” asked Cohen. “Those guys coming to kill us?” He looked less afraid than I felt. “Well, I guess it’s up to you fellers to fix this.”