by John Harris
5
From his scout car, Brigadier Wintle stared from under his Dharwa headdress at the entrance to the Tasha Pass. Behind him the huddle of buildings that made up Afarja village showed among the shrubby slopes of juniper and myrtle, and further along the road he could see the tower of Afarja fort, since the fall of Umrah the last eastern outpost of the Sultanate.
He glanced again at the pass with a jaundiced eye. Near him, staring through binoculars, was Zaid Yasin, the commander of the fortress, a small leathery little man, his figure draped with map-cases, revolver and binoculars. Wintle pulled the headdress lower, his eyes narrow.
The Dharwa Heights rose in front of him like a vast wall, patches of red shale interspersed with black rock. To the right the mountains curved round, climbing steeply, the peaks shining in the late sunshine against the pale blue sky.
Wintle was worried. There was something ominous about the stillness. The Muleimat had not sent their headmen down to meet him and he had a suspicion that somewhere, somehow, something was not as it should be. It smelled wrong. It felt wrong and, before plunging into the pass, he had halted his lorries to study the place.
Behind him, his men watched, sitting in their vehicles with their weapons, already covered thickly with the red-brown dust of the border, all a little bored despite the prospect of excitement, the Dharwa scouts wishing Wintle would get on with it so they could be among their hated enemies, the tribes to the north. Over the little column there was a smell of hot oil, metal and rubber.
The rest of Wintle’s men were five miles back along the road. It had been Wintle’s intention originally to head into the pass, with no other consideration but the relief of Hahdhdhah, but the strange intuitive feeling that all was not as it should be had halted him until the rest of the column caught up with him.
He was still wondering whether to take the risk and go ahead when he heard the sound of an approaching vehicle, its gears grinding noisily as it climbed the zigzag path up the hill.
‘What the hell–?’ he said aloud. His instructions had been that there was to be no show of haste, no indication that they were heading for Hahdhdhah, in the hope that the owners of the prying eyes that he knew watched them all along the road from the mountain tops might think he was only trying to regain Umrah from the northern tribesmen.
As he turned in his seat, he saw another scout car hurtling towards him, throwing up the dust and bouncing harshly on its springs on the rocky track. The driver was a Khaliti subaltern from Khowiba, at the far end of the border road.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he snapped as the other scout car drew alongside. ‘Haven’t you enough to do at Khowiba?’
He stared at the other occupant of the car, wondering what the hell a blood-stained scruffy-looking Deleimi was doing aboard. He could tell he was Deleimi from the twist in his girdle and the way his turban was tied.
‘Reimabassi!’ The subaltern looked a little nervous. ‘I was told to find you. Zaid Waouzzit thought it was important.’
The Deleimi had climbed from the scout car now and was standing alongside Wintle. ‘I’m Beebe,’ he said in an American accent. ‘Lucas Beebe. I’ve just come from Hahdhdhah.’
Beebe had crossed the Sufeiya in pitch darkness aware of the increasing cold. The clear sky had filled with clouds in a matter of minutes, it had seemed, and as he had waited in a cluster of thorn bushes on the river bank for darkness to come, it had begun to rain, at first in a drizzle and then, unexpectedly, in a downpour that soaked him to the skin and left him chilled to the bone. The storm had brought a squally wind with it and he had crouched miserably on the bank of the river, wretchedly aware of his empty stomach and the weakness of his limbs.
As the darkness had thickened, he had slid down the crumbling bank, his feet unable to find a purchase on the thin soil that was being washed down by the rain, and the mud at the bottom was sticky beneath his sandalled feet as he moved forward cautiously among the white boulders that filled the bed of the river. On his right, he could see the lights of Sufeiya village and hear the roistering of the Hejris guarding the bridge, and the squeals of women. He was saturated now and frozen, but at least the rain was keeping the sentries on the bridge out of sight.
It was difficult finding his way forward because some of the boulders towered above his head and in the darkness he found he was terrified of losing all sense of direction. Trying hard to keep the lights of Sufeiya behind him, he headed out among the rocks, climbing one, skirting another, banging his knees in the darkness as his sandals slipped on the wet stone. Then a dog started barking from the bank, probably disturbed by the sound of his feet, and he saw a door open and a shot rang out, to send the dog yelping to safety.
Terrified that they’d shoot at him, too, he flung himself down among the boulders, aware that he’d skinned his ankle in his haste. After a while, he rose and continued, moving towards where he could now hear the murmur and rustle of water.
After a while, he was standing at the water’s edge and saw that he’d come to the crisis of the crossing. According to Zaid Fauzan, the river was deep enough in its centre to drown him, and, because of its depth, there was a swift current after the rain. He stared at it for a moment, trying to summon up his courage, then he began to move forward. Coming from the mountains, the water was icy, far colder than he’d expected, and it took his breath away as it rose above his knees and embraced his stomach. The clothes he wore clung clammily to his body, heavy and sodden, but he struggled onwards, feeling his way cautiously into the stream. Then, abruptly, when he wasn’t expecting it, the ground beneath his feet fell away and he disappeared beneath the water.
He came up, gasping and shocked with the cold, and struck out instinctively for the opposite shore. He was aware of the current carrying him towards the iron bridge and, terrified that he’d be borne beneath one of the sentries who would hear him splashing in the water, he almost lost his head. He was still fighting his way across when he barked his knees against a submerged rock and found he could put his foot down. But as he stepped forward, his foot slipped and he fell again. As he rose, spluttering and frightened, he realised he’d twisted his ankle.
He was in the shallow water at the other side now, trying to find his way to the bank. His knee felt as though he had scraped all the skin from it, and his ankle gave him sharp jabs of pain as though the sprain was worse than he’d thought.
Gasping, dragged to the ground by the wet woollen cloak he wore, he flung himself down to get his breath, aware that he’d lost the revolver from under his clothes. Oddly enough he’d hung on to the battered Lee-Enfield and he decided that perhaps it was safer that way.
Struggling among the rattling reeds at the far side, he found himself beneath a high earth bank and moved frantically along it, unable to find a way up and terrified he’d still be there, in full view of the sentries, when daylight came.
He found a narrow gully where water lashed down in a steady stream from the Dharwas towards the river bed, and managed to scramble up it. He was soaked and plastered with red mud and, as he reached the level of the road, he realised just how hungry and cold he was. He had lost one of the heavy sandals he had worn, so he kicked the other off and set off barefooted towards where he could see the vast shadow of the mountains against the sky.
Several hours later, sick with weariness, he realised he’d lost his way and sank down among the rocks to recover his breath before picking out the entrance to the pass. He soon found the road again, and headed up the slope, marching with a heavy limp into the mountains. It was still dark and he saw no one, though occasionally he glimpsed a light just off the track where some Khadari hut lay among the boulders or where some goatherd cooked his food for the night. Occasionally a dog barked but he moved warily round them, keeping to the side of the road so that if anyone appeared he could vanish among the rocks. As daylight came, he dragged himself lamely into a gully to rest.
When he woke, the sun was out, warming him with weak rays throu
gh the watery clouds. The road now was just a muddy track full of puddles, its edges running with noisy water. He was about to climb from his hiding place when he heard voices and, peeping carefully out, he saw groups of men in tattered robes and head-cloths, interspersed here and there by shabby green battledresses and peaked caps.
He remained there all day, trying to forget the emptiness of his stomach and the chill of his body as the wind howled through the mountains from the north. Only the thought of Hahdhdhah prevented him from throwing his hand in. From time to time more Khadari and an occasional Zihouni in a black cloak appeared, and in the end he decided it was safer to remain where he was until dark.
He waited until it was no longer possible to make out the rocks along the road before he emerged, then, limping heavily, began to head south again. His ankle had stiffened up by this time and every step was agony. The damp woollen cloak hung like a lead weight from his shoulders, impeding his movements, and clinging to his legs and arms as he walked.
How long he trudged on he didn’t know because eventually he was moving in his sleep. Once he fell, and once he walked clean off the road into the rain gully that ran alongside the road, knocking himself half-silly as he crashed down. He climbed out, numb with misery, and found his way to the road again, conscious of the pain in his ankle and all the places where he had skinned himself in falling. He was shivering with cold now and frantic with hunger, stumbling, falling and weaving about the road in his exhaustion. Then, blinded by weariness, unaware of what he was doing, he suddenly realised someone was shouting at him and, as he pulled himself together, a dark figure seemed to rise out of the shadows.
A torch snapped on and, by its reflection, he saw that he was faced by a young man in a black Zihouni headdress. He wore a greatcoat, unbuttoned and hanging open, and over one arm was a rifle.
Immediately Beebe’s exhaustion fell away from him and he lifted the old Enfield butt-upwards in his right hand as he gestured with his left at the soaked and bloody bandages round his head. The Zihouni didn’t seem satisfied with his grunts and spoke to him in words he couldn’t understand. In the end, he produced the safe-conduct pass purported to have been signed by Abu Mauliyi, and the youngster stared at it in the light of the torch, frowning heavily, weighty with officiousness. Then he pointed backwards and spoke again and Beebe realised he was telling him that the Sufeiya was behind him and that he had no right to be in the pass.
Beebe was a bedraggled, desperate figure by this time, and the boy grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and tried to turn him back. Beebe shouted incoherent words but the boy insisted, and as he let go and pointed again his head turned away, the angle of his jaw gleaming in the reflected glow from the torch. At once, almost without thinking, Beebe brought up the rifle with all that remained of his strength and heard the satisfying crunch as it struck the boy on the chin.
Even before the boy had fallen to the ground, he was weaving in a staggering run for the rocks at the side of the road.
6
‘I guess it turned out I got on the wrong road after the river and was in the wrong pass,’ he said to Wintle. ‘I’d got into the Ridwha instead of the Fajir and I was nearer the end of it than I thought. When it came daylight, I saw a bunch of guys coming towards me. They looked like Khaliti troops and, brother, was I pleased to see ’em! Only I forgot what I looked like and they were just going to plug me when I remembered I wasn’t a wounded Deleimi. Boy, did I yell? I threw away that goddam gun and flung my hands up and started yelling for help. Fortunately, one of ’em understood English. They had a lorry down the road and they took me to Khowiba where the guy in charge decided that what I had to say ought to be said to you.’
Wintle eyed him. ‘And what have you to say?’ he demanded.
Beebe moved round the scout car, limping heavily, and Wintle saw that his feet were wrapped in rags which appeared to have been torn from his clothes. ‘This goddam pass is closed,’ he said. ‘The Muleimat are waiting in there for you with everything they’ve got.’
Wintle’s eyebrows danced. ‘Are they, by God?’ he said. ‘I had a feeling they might be.’
‘The Ridwha’s open,’ Beebe went on. ‘Or as good as. The Khadari had enough at Hahdhdhah. We sent ’em away with bloody noses. But Pentecost said not to trust the bastards, all the same. He thought Aziz might send someone after them to stiffen ’em and they might still wait to see which way the wind was blowing.’
Wintle’s face was grim. ‘We’ll knock the bloody stuffing out of the sods,’ he said, ‘then next time they’ll think twice before changing sides.’
He studied Beebe for a moment. ‘How do you feel?’ he asked.
‘I guess I’m fazed.’
Wintle handed him a brandy flask. ‘I’ll send you to Dhafran as soon as I’ve got this bloody column turned round.’
‘No!’ Wintle turned back as Beebe spoke sharply. ‘You don’t send me back to Dhafran!’
‘You need medical attention,’ Wintle said. ‘Your feet look like hell.’
‘They’ll hold up a bit longer,’ Beebe grimed. ‘I guess maybe I can ride now.’
Wintle stared at him. ‘Why the hell do you want to go back there?’ he said. ‘It’s no joy ride to Hahdhdhah.’
Beebe considered the question. He wasn’t sure himself. It certainly wasn’t bravery. He didn’t enjoy danger and he disliked discomfort. Somehow, he decided, it was connected with Pentecost. He had to be there when Pentecost emerged to greet his relief. There’d be a faint frosty smile on his thin features and he’d come forward, dressed immaculately as always, aloof, unapproachable yet strangely appealing. ‘Hello, Mr Beebe—’ there wouldn’t even be a Christian name, he knew, but he found himself looking forward more than he could believe to being the object of Pentecost’s gratitude.
He tried to explain. ‘I guess I don’t really know,’ he said. ‘Maybe it’s because I was there when it started and I want to be there when it finishes.’ He managed a weary grin. ‘I guess also maybe I want to see that guy’s face is all.’
‘Which guy?’
‘Young Billy Pentecost. Brother, you sure have a hot property there!’
Part Three
Friends in High Places
Twelve
1
Wintle was coming.
The news brought to Hahdhdhah by Wintle’s radio message had produced an electric effect. When Chestnut had delivered it to Pentecost, they had stared at each other silently for several long seconds, then Pentecost’s tired face had broken into a slow smile. It was cold now and the wind was lifting the dust and they were all growing weary of the monotony.
‘That’s good news, Sergeant,’ he had said.
‘Aye, sir,’ Chestnut had agreed. ‘It is, that.’
When it was passed among the Toweidas and the Dharwas, men had wept, then it had swept into the courtyard and up the stairways and down into the cellars. It was written out in English, Hejri and Khaliti for all to see and a single thought surged through the minds of everyone. They were saved! It didn’t matter that Wintle was no closer than the road that ran along the south of the Dharwas from Umrah to Aba el Zereibat. If they could only hold out a few more days, Wintle would save them. His fame along the frontier was secure. No one – not even Aziz – treated him with impunity. He knew how the Hejri and Deleimi thought and knew their deviousness, their stubbornness and their vanity. There would be no stopping him.
Later in the day, Chestnut produced a bundle of pamphlets he’d printed on the ancient duplicating machine they’d used for proclamations. OWINDA-EL COMES, they announced. TAKE CARE, AZIZ. TAKE CARE, THAWAB. OWINDA-EL IS ON HIS WAY. Chestnut was very pleased with them.
‘It’ll help Billy,’ he said as he showed them to Fox. ‘Make ’em realise we’ve got friends in high places, mon. Ah thought it might be a guid idea to fire ’em fra’ the walls.’
‘What the hell with?’ Fox asked.
Chestnut’s humourless face cracked into a grin. ‘Ma catapult,’ he said. ‘
Me an’ yon Beebe built a gey grand one, mon.’
2
Thawab was furious. He flourished the printed paper in front of Aziz’s nose and glared round at his followers.
‘“Owinda-el comes,”’ he read aloud. ‘“Take care, Aziz. Take care, Thawab. Owinda-el is on his way.” Now what does Aziz say about his great plans?’
‘The Khadari are holding the pass at Ridwha,’ Aziz roared back. ‘I have been myself to see them.’
‘They cannot stop Owinda-el! He has guns and radios. The Khadari have nothing but rifles and their muscles and blood! And why did he not go into the Tasha? We were waiting for him there. There has been treachery.’
Aziz lifted the Mannlicher slowly. ‘Dost thou accuse me, Thawab?’
There was a tense silence and Thawab controlled himself. ‘No,’ he said carefully. ‘I do not. But we have waited too long and there has been too much talk of Bin T’Khass and not enough of Rhamin Sulk’s guns.’ He paused and stared round at the tribal chiefs who were watching them. ‘We can have them here in twenty-four hours.’
Aziz stared at him, unable to speak, knowing in his heart that the one thing he had tried to avoid was now inevitable. With Wintle heading for Hahdhdhah he no longer dared put Thawab off. Hahdhdhah had become a symbol. It had no value either to them or to the Sultan and it didn’t even stop the tribesmen swarming across the Sufeiya. But it did indicate whose authority covered the plain, and that was enough.
He suddenly realised he was an old man – tired, disillusioned, and conscious that he no longer held the Hejri tribes in the palm of his hand as he had in the past. Tragedy was a recurring motif of age and all he wanted at that moment was to go back to his lands in the north, taking his son and the Hassi girl from Addowara with him, and remain there quietly for the rest of his life. Events were out of his control.