by M. M. Kaye
One of Salmé‘s women thrust her way back through the press, whimpering and indignant, and clawed at her mistress’s arm: “Highness, Highness! they say we may not pass; that there is an order that no one may pass. I have told them that it is some noble ladies who wish to see the Seyyida Méjé, but they do not believe it. They say that if we will not disperse they will unveil us here in the street and deal with us as they would with harlots. We must go back. Highness—it is useless to persist They are rough men and lewd—we must go back!”
Salmé thrust the woman behind her, and turning to her sister said in a voice that despite all her efforts she could not keep from trembling:
“You were right, Cholé. We must go ourselves to their commanding officer and tell him who we are. It is the only way.”
Several of the more elderly waiting women, horrified by this announcement, fell on their knees and endeavoured to hold them back, but Hero struck away the clutching hands and thrust herself between them, and finding themselves free the sisters ran forward to confront the Commander of the guard.
It was probably Chole’s beauty more than Salmé‘s dramatic and emotional pleading that reduced the guard to dazzled, stammering subservience, for although no man there could have recognized any of the rigorously secluded Palace ladies, it was instantly plain that these two women were what they claimed to be; daughters of the Royal House.
There was a collective gasp of awe and admiration as the sisters threw back their dark wrappings, and a sudden stillness fell on the crowd as they looked on something that men of their stamp would never see again. Even Hero was conscious of a small shock of admiration and a sudden uncomfortable feeling that she herself was fashioned out of coarser clay. The Sultan’s sisters were dressed as she had always imagined that the fabulous Queens and Princesses of the Arabian Nights would be dressed, and the lamplight shone on shimmering silks and gold embroidery and threw back the flash and glitter of jewels. But although Salmé‘s dark eyes and sad mouth had their own appeal, it was Cholé who took one’s breath away; Cholé looking as pale and as impossibly lovely as one of those fragile, heavy-scented moon-flowers that bloom only by night and die before the dawn.
The Commander of the guard, bemused alike by that beauty and his reverence for the Royal Family, found his tongue with difficulty and began to stammer apologies for having attempted to obstruct the path of such noble ladies, while the guards themselves drew back, hands to foreheads and bowing almost to the ground. Cholé inclined her lovely head in regal acknowledgement, and the long procession of women—Seyyidas, serving-women, slaves and Hero Hollis—swept past and were admitted into the Heir-Apparent’s house.
They found Bargash in Méjé’s room, and bedlam reigning. Méjé and several of her women were in tears, Bargash himself ablaze with excitement and nervous tension, and twelve-year-old Aziz riotous with triumph:
“We saw you!” shouted the boy, jumping up and down with all the inexhaustible enthusiasm of the young: “We were watching you from the windows and Méjé said they would never let you through, and even my brother was afraid. He was pulling his beard and sweating and cursing.”
Yes, you were, I heard you! And old Ayesha there was praying. But I wasn’t afraid. I knew you’d do it. I knew they wouldn’t dare stop you!
Oh, Salmé, isn’t it exciting? Have you got a plan? Why are you here? What are you going to do?”
“Hush! begged Cholé with a frantic glance at the open windows. “Close the shutters, or they will hear us. We are going to take you away; now, at once. We have brought women’s clothes with us for a disguise, and since those fools below never thought to count us they will not know how many go out with us. Salmé has sent word to the chiefs to bring horses to a meeting place outside the city so that you may escape to join your supporters. But they will only wait there until moonrise, and if we are not there by that time they will know our plan has failed and will disperse for their own safety. So we must go quickly—quickly!”
The words had been too swiftly spoken for Hero to follow, but the gist of them—the need for speed—was completely clear, and she could hardly believe it when Bargash haughtily and flatly refused to wear womens’ clothes, declaring that he would die rather than allow it to be said that he, Seyyid Bargash-bin-Saïd, had skulked within the dress of a serving-maid and played the woman. Danger he would face, and death if necessary; but humiliation and disgrace, never I If he was to be shot down by his brother’s hirelings it would be as himself—the Heir! “Do you think I could endure hearing the laughter of those low-bred mercenaries if they should discover me among your slaves, trembling behind a woman’s veil? No, Cholé! I will not do it!”
“Men!” thought Hero: and for the first time began to take a less romantic view of the Heir-Apparent. Couldn’t he see that every minute wasted in this ridiculous manner was increasing their danger and lessening their chances of success? Was he really going to throw away any hope of escape, and waste all the efforts that these courageous women had made to save him, for the sake of a stupid male quibble? He might assert that to be found in women’s dress reflected on his courage and honour, but in Hero’s opinion it was the women who were showing themselves the braver sex. And the more sensible one, too!
The minutes ticked away and time slipped through their fingers and was lost, but still the foolish argument went on and on; until at last Hero, angry, exasperated and suddenly beginning to wish that she had never come, said loudly: “We had better leave him then, and go.”
In the babble of voices her words went unheeded by the chief contestants, but Salmé at least had heard them. And so too had several of the serving-women, who already frightened by the delay, recognized the voice of prudence and began to edge towards the door in the manner of panic-stricken sheep.
It was enough for Bargash. He had the sense to see that in another moment their nerve would break and they would be stampeding from the room and out of the house, taking his only chance of escape with them, and he capitulated. “But I will not go unarmed. If they try to stop me I shall fight. I will not be taken alive!”
Willing hands rushed to arm him, and pistols and daggers were thrust into his waistband and hung about his neck, and at last a schele belonging to the tallest of the women was wrapped about him, leaving only his eyes free.
“You must walk behind us,” said Cholé, “among those of our women who are nearest to you in size, so that your height will not betray you. And we must talk, all of us, and walk slowly. Remember, we have only been on a visit here and we are anxious on Méjé’s account. That is all. There must be no hurrying and no signs of fear.’ She motioned to Hero and the three tallest slaves to stand with Bargash, directed little Aziz, also disguised in a schele, to walk between two of her waiting-maids, and turning her back on the sobbing Méjé said curtly: “Let us go.”
They walked out the way they had come; forcing themselves to move unhurriedly and control the trembling of their voices; talking lightly though with little idea as to what they were saying, and wondering, each one of them, if when they reached the guards they would be stopped and the whole desperate enterprise end in shots and terror and spilt blood.
Bargash’s own servants unbarred the great carved door, opening it only wide enough to allow the women to pass through. And then they were out in the night air once more, with the sea wind blowing in their faces and the lamplight and the shadows swaying back and forth across their shrouded figures.
It seemed to Hero that the guards had been reinforced and that there were now many more of them massed outside the house than there had been half an hour ago. But she held herself straight, walking erect and tall so that the Heir-Apparent’s hunched shoulders and lowered head might appear shorter by contrast. Out of the comer of her eye she saw one of the Sultan’s Baluchi soldiers lean forward suddenly and stare, and felt fear trickle like ice-water down her spine. Had he noticed anything strange about the muffled figure that kept pace with her, or was it a glimpse of her own grey eyes that had at
tracted his attention? She should have remembered to keep them lowered, and she did so now; hoping that if he bad seen them he would take her for a Circassian.
“Slowly,” muttered Salmé—for once past the guards the impulse to break into a run had been strong enough to make every one of them quicken their steps, though they were still in full view and by no means out of danger. Hero could hear Bargash breathing as though he had already run a mile, and was annoyed to find that her own breathing was far from steady and her heart beating much too fast. And then at last they had reached the comer, turned it, and were out of sight…
“Not yet—not yet!” whispered Cholé urgently. “We must not run until we are free of the town. There are still too many people abroad, and we must look as though we were only going or returning from a visit to friends. Go on talking as though there was nothing wrong.”
It had never occurred to Hero that they would not return immediately to Beit-el-Tani. She had visualized Bargash being given a more adequate disguise there, and provided with a trustworthy escort to accompany him to some waiting ship that would take him to safety. But they had already passed Beit-el-Tani and were walking through the streets; faster now but still without any appearance of haste; and somehow it did not seem possible to turn back and abandon them at this point. Whether she wanted to or not she would have to stay with them, and she could only hope that Fattûma would have the sense to wait for her, since it began to look as though the whole affair were going to take a good deal longer than she had anticipated.
Swept onward by the hurrying crowd of women she soon lost her bearings and all count of how many turnings they had taken. The houses began to thin out and there were more trees, and then at last the open country stretched before them, grey in the bright starlight, and throwing aside all restraint they began to run towards a distant mass of trees that loomed up darkly against the night sky. As they neared it they slowed to a walk and stopped, sobbing for breath, to veil their faces from the sight of strange men as half-a-dozen shadowy figures moved out from among the trees to meet them. One of these coughed in an artificial manner that suggested a signal, and a man’s voice called softly: “Is it you, Highness?”
“It is I,” replied Bargash breathlessly.
“Allah be praised!”
The fervent exclamation made Hero jump, for it was not a single voice that spoke, but a chorus. Somehow she had not expected that there would be so many men. She had imagined there would be two or three, and the fact that there were more than two dozen gave her a sudden feeling of disquiet. Could all these men be escaping on the same ship that night? She did not have time to ponder the question, however, for there were horses waiting in the shadows and this time there were no arguments and no delays. The Heir-Apparent flung off his schele, and with barely a word of farewell, took his young brother by the hand and vanished into the darkness. And a moment or two later the jingle of harness and the thud of hooves on dry ground told her that the whole cavalcade had mounted and were riding swiftly away into the night.
The women stood huddled together; waiting, speechless and exhausted, until the last sounds faded into silence; and when they could hear nothing more they turned tiredly to face the return journey across the fields and the open country to the dark, deserted streets of the sleeping city.
The moon was up by the time they reached Beit-el-Tani, and Hero was limping badly as the result of losing one of her shoes while running through stubble. But Fattûma was waiting for her in the hall and they had reached home safely, to find Cressy still awake and in a state of agitation that reminded Hero all too vividly of the scene she had recently witnessed in Méjé’s room.
“I thought you were never coming!” shuddered Cressy. “I’ve been down at least ten times to see that no one had shut the door, and I thought you must all have been caught or shot or What have you been doing to be so late? Has the Prince escaped? Is he safe? Is everything all right? What happened?”
“Everything!” said Hero briefly, collapsing onto her bed. “Yes, he’s safe, and everything’s all right. It went off beautifully in spite of the silly way he behaved; you wouldn’t believe how tiresome he was! It should be days and days before anyone finds out he isn’t in the house, and by the time they do he’ll be halfway to Arabia or Persia, or wherever he’s going.”
“Oh,” said Cressy, suddenly deflated. “Then—then it’s all over.”
“Yes. They had horses, so they’re probably safely on board some ship by now.”
“I didn’t mean that. I meant…everything else. The Prince will never be Sultan now, and everything will be as bad as before and never get any better.”
Hero stood up, wincing, and began to remove her dress. She said thoughtfully: “I’m not so sure about that. You know, Cressy, we may have been wrong about the Prince. After all, a great deal of what we know about him is only what his sisters have told us. And one can see why they all dote on him, for he is exactly the type of dashing, dare-devil younger brother that sisters would spoil and adore—particularly Eastern sisters! But though I admit that I thought it an excellent idea to have him as Sultan instead of Majid—and I still think he would make a better one—anyone who could behave so…so downright ridiculously as that man did tonight cannot be held to have a great deal of common sense. He carried on like a schoolgirl in a tantrum, and I am not at all sure that he is the right person to institute reforms. So I guess it’s just as well that he’s gone and I only hope he reaches the ship in safety. Goodness, am I tired! I feel as though I could sleep for a week. Good night, honey.”
She crawled thankfully between the sheets, conscious of having done her duty and happily unaware that the Heir-Apparent and his entourage had safely reached not a ship, but Marseilles, and that his escape had not, as she so confidently supposed, gone undetected. For a Baluchi soldier who had stood at the gate and watched the women pass out had recognized, in one brief moment between the slipping of a fold of cloth and its hurried replacement, the face of Seyyid Bargash-bin-Saïd, half-brother and Heir-Apparent to His Highness the Sultan.
The Baluchi had not raised an immediate alarm, since he, like Hero Hollis, had believed himself to be witnessing the escape of a man whose sole intention was to fly the country. And having served for several years under the Seyyid’s father, his loyalty and respect for the dead Lion of Oman had been strong enough to persuade hun to hold his tongue and give his late Sultan’s son a chance to reach safety. But morning had brought the country-folk flocking into the city with their loads of grain and fruit and vegetables for the market, and they had brought with them tales of unprecedented numbers of Arabs seen hurrying towards Marseilles—armed and eager men on foot and on horseback, accompanied by slaves carrying swords, muskets and provisions enough for an army…
The Baluchi soldier, listening to those tales, realized that the Seyyid Bargash had not flown the country, but escaped to lead an armed rebellion, and he had hurried to the Palace to confess what he had seen.
Two hours later a frightened eunuch scratched at Chole’s door with the news that every detail of her brother’s escape and his sisters’ part in it was known to the Sultan, and that his ministers were already meeting to decide what action must be taken: “They have sent for the British Consul,” stammered the eunuch, “and it is said that he is urging His Highness to take strong measures, and will lend guns and English sailors from a ship that is expected to arrive within a few days.”
The guards had been withdrawn from Bargash’s house, and in the Palace the Sultan, pallid with alarm and indignation, poured his troubles into the unsympathetic ear of Colonel George Edwards, and received in return the same comments and advice that his ministers and councillors had already given him.
“I have repeatedly warned your Highness,” said Colonel Edwards stiffly, “that your leniency in the matter of your brother has been sadly misplaced. But as you have so far chosen to ignore my warnings, you cannot now expect me to express astonishment at what has occurred. It was only to be expe
cted, and I am not in the least surprised.”
“You knew of this plot, then?” demanded Majid indignantly.
“As much as your Highness knew. There has never been over-much secrecy about your brother’s proceedings; or, for that matter, his intentions. I am well aware that your ministers have been pressing you to take action against him for months past, and I can only join them in urging you to lose no further time about it, since every hour that you waste is to his advantage. He is obviously counting upon outside support, either from Muscat and Oman or—or from some European nation. And though at the moment you can muster considerably more men and armaments than he can boast of, if you allow him to entrench himself in a strong position and remain there unmolested, collecting more supporters daily with promises of pay and the prospect of plunder, and waiting until even stronger reinforcements arrive from outside the Island, your throne is lost. Your Highness must act at once.”
It was always easier to advise Majid to take action than to get him to the point of acting. But the news that his brother had forced the slaves on the plantations bordering on Marseilles to join him, and had set them to cutting down the coconut groves to build a stockade about the house and destroying the clove plantations so that they might not be used to cover a hostile advance, finally drove him to collect a force of five thousand men and reluctantly accompany it to Beit-el-Ras, a royal estate on the coast some eight miles from the city.
Bargash’s undisciplined supporters, undeterred by this move, embarked on an orgy of looting and destruction, and Colonel Edwards sent off a dhow with an urgent message requesting the immediate presence of any Royal Navy vessel that might chance to be in the vicinity. And as panic spread through the undefended city. Hero Hollis realized with horror that this ugly and terrifying situation was something that she herself had helped to bring about.