The Sleeping Sands

by Nat Edwards

  ‘So the Shusteris are beginning to turn against the Matamet?’ asked Layard.

  ‘Some,’ replied the Lur, ‘and Au Kerim’s agents among the Bakhtiari have been at work. I could summon a force of fifty trusted men in a matter of hours if you plan to act.’

  Layard’s plan was simple. As night fell, the dervish troupe marched noisily into town, proclaiming loudly that its populace were doomed due to their sinfulness and offering salvation to a few pious souls who might be saved by means of their incantations and amulets. With anxieties about the plague running high and the memories of its earlier devastation still clear in many minds; within a short while it seemed that half of the city’s population was thronging to the dervishes and the streets were quickly becoming clogged, chaotic and filled with fractious and increasingly angry people. Those serbázes, ferrashes and tribal fighters of the Matamet’s forces in the town who were not already caught up with the mob found themselves quickly having to control it. Under the cover of darkness and the general confusion, Layard entered the city to meet as arranged with Saleh and a group of about fifty Shusteris and Bakhtiari matchlock men. The Bakhtiaris also brought with them spare weapons and horses.

  The dervishes led their procession further into the city, away from the houses where the Khan’s brothers and son were held. Saleh led half of the men, mainly Bakhtiaris to the house holding Ali Nahi Khan, Shefi’a Khan and Au Kerim, while Layard led a mainly Shusteri force against the house of Mohammed Zamaun. What guards had been posted at the house had been drawn away by the disturbance in the streets and Layard found that the household were unwilling to offer any resistance to a tall determined European at the head of twenty-five armed men. With no tutor to slow them down, albeit with much lamenting of the fate of his father’s mare, Hussein Kuli was quickly secured and saddled upon a fresh horse. Layard led the prince and his men to their prearranged rendezvous at a small city gate, the sounds of the dervishes and the riot they had instigated far in the distance. As they approached, above the general hubbub they heard the sounds of musket fire. There was a drumming of hoofs and Saleh and the Bakhtiaris came galloping up to the gate. All the time, the horsemen turning while in full gallop in true Bakhtiari fashion, to fire to their rear at the soldiers who were pursuing them.

  ‘Ferrashes!’ shouted Saleh, as he galloped up. ‘We have the captives, but a force of the Matamet’s men surprised us.’

  Layard and his horsemen joined the Bakhtiaris as they thundered through the gate and raced into the night, spreading out as they ran. Their pursuers, now confronted with a force that had suddenly doubled, appeared to begin to loose the stomach for the chase, as their own horses seemed to slow markedly once they left the shelter of the city walls. Their shots became less frequent and gradually more distant. Suddenly exultant in victory and the frenzy of the mad race Layard found himself galloping alongside Hussein Kuli and Au Kerim Khan.

  ‘It is good to see you again, my friend!’ shouted Au Kerim, a wild smile on his face, as he turned to fire a pistol at the rapidly receding group of soldiers behind them. ‘You have brought hope to my people. With his son safe once more, my brother will take back Kala Tul.’

  Layard turned to shout back to Au Kerim. At that moment the khan gasped and let loose his reins, slumping in his saddle and falling suddenly from sight. His horse charged on into the night. A stray bullet from the distant pursuers had found him. Hussein Kuli cried out and pulled sharply on his own reins, wheeling his horse and charging back to where a dark form lay unmoving on the ground. A few lengths behind, Layard, followed by Ali Naghi Khan, galloped up behind the prince, firing into the darkness in the general direction of the Matamet’s ferrashes, who could now be heard gaining upon them.

  ‘Uncle!’ cried out the boy, his face streaked with tears.

  The boy was starting to dismount as Layard pulled up beside him.

  ‘No, my friend!’ shouted Layard, ‘you must get back to your father. I will see to your uncle.’

  Layard sprang from his horse and ran to Au Kerim, who lay a few feet away.

  ‘Come, boy!’ shouted Ali Naghi Khan as he rode up, ‘we must go now. The Frank will tend to my brother.’

  The boy stared blankly at the still form of Au Kerim, by whose side Layard now knelt. Without protest, he allowed Ali Naghi Khan to grab his reins and drag his horse away, whipping at its flank as they galloped off. The pursuers drew nearer.

  ‘Effendi!’ called Saleh as he rode up, ‘we must go. The rest are all away.’

  ‘Help me, Saleh,’ cried Layard and together they pulled the unconscious form of Au Kerim across the bow of Layard’s saddle. Layard swung up behind him.

  ‘They are too close,’ urged Saleh, peering into the darkness, ‘we will never outrun them.’

  ‘This way,’ hissed Layard, driving his horse from the road and down a steep incline into a dry ditch. About fifty yards along the ditch was an old ruined bridge, towards which Saleh and Layard now galloped.

  They barely made the shadow of the bridge as the sounds of pursuit came upon them. Sitting bent low over their saddles and grasping their guns, they listened for any sign of the pursuit slowing or turning towards them. None came. The ferrashes galloped after the main force, their hoofbeats fading into the distance.

  ‘Now we are cut off, Effendi,’ whispered Saleh, ‘we can’t follow them back to the Khan.’

  ‘We will have to take the long way back to Fellahiyah, my friend,’ said Layard, ‘through rough country. It’s out of our hands now. I only hope they get the prince back to Mehemet Taki Khan in time.’

  Saleh and Layard picked their way carefully along the ditch and through a series of rough orchards that ran along the banks of the Karun for several miles from Shuster. Once they were safely away from the main road, Layard stopped and dismounted to take a closer look at Au Kerim. With Saleh’s assistance, he laid him in a patch of moonlight and inspected his wounds. The khan groaned softly but did not wake.

  ‘The bullet wound is minor,’ said Layard, ‘it seems to have passed right through the flesh of his upper arm without hitting a bone or major artery.’

  ‘Praise be to Allah,’ interjected Saleh.

  ‘The bullet isn’t the problem, I fear’ continued Layard. ‘Au Kerim has fallen badly. I fear he has been badly injured inside – his breathing is shallow and liquid. He needs treatment soon.’

  ‘There are many miles to Fellahiyah, Effendi,’ said Saleh with concern. ‘To avoid the Matamet’s guards and the patrols he is bound to send out after them, we must travel along the Karun towards the Shat el Arab before cutting back eastwards to Fellahiyah.’

  ‘Staying close to the water will be good for Au Kerim,’ muttered Layard, ‘but I do not know how much longer he will survive.’

  The tough Bakhtiari warrior survived for three arduous days of the small party picking their through rough country, keeping close to the Karun river, but out of sight of the trails that they feared the Matamet’s soldiers might use. On the fourth morning, Layard woke to find Saleh kneeling beside Au Kerim.

  ‘He died, Effendi,’ said the Lur simply. ‘A lion has gone to join Ali.’

  Layard felt a sudden weight of fatigue press down upon him. What now should he do for this warlord of the Bakhtiari, whom he had dragged out into the wilderness to die alone and unacknowledged by his people?

  ‘What is the custom, Saleh?’ asked Layard, his voice cracking. ‘How do we mark the passing of such a man?’

  Saleh looked sadly at Layard.

  ‘He should be buried in sacred ground Effendi,’ the Lur stood and viewed the valley stretching out before them.

  ‘There is a shrine less than half a day’s ride that way,’ he said, pointing to the west. ‘It is a very holy place where the Imaum Riza rested when he was flying from his enemies.’

  ‘It is fitting that Au Kerim Khan should be buried in such a place and find safety from his own pursuers,’ agreed Layard. ‘We shall take him there.’

  Saleh looked forlornly a
t Layard. For long moments he said nothing. Then, awkwardly he said softly, ‘No, Effendi. It is a very holy place. Only I can take Au Kerim Khan.’

  Layard began to protest, but thought better of it. He realised what an embarrassment it might prove to have an infidel discovered at a holy site, while they were still in enemy-controlled territory.

  ‘Very well, Saleh, you will take the khan and I will await you here. But first, I plan to say my own goodbyes.’

  In Shuster, Manuchar Ali Khan was screaming curses in his warbling unnatural voice – curses that lost nothing of their potency for their terrified audience.

  ‘How could you idiots permit that infidel to walk into the city and escape with four captives?’ he demanded. ‘I have a series of exquisitely designed tortures prepared for the Khan and his stinking family that now I have no use for but testing on your miserable selves!’

  His captains cowered and looked desperately from side to side, trying to spot an opportunity to pass the blame for the prisoners’ escape onto another of their number.

  ‘These Shusteris are miserable cowards, Your Excellency,’ growled a Bakhtiari chieftain, fingering the hilt of his long knife. ‘They ran away at the first sign of trouble.’

  ‘That’s a fine statement coming from a traitor,’ spat back Au Mohammed Zamaun, ‘there were Bakhtiari riding alongside the infidel – no doubt from your own matchlock men.’

  ‘It is just to be expected, when we have to rely on these filthy tribesmen, Your Excellency,’ purred a tall Persian commander, ‘say the word and my serbázes will flay their headmen and stake them out on the parade ground as a lesson to the others.’

  At his words, the whole chamber broke out into chaos as the captains flung insults and recriminations at each other. Disgusted, the Matamet looked on from his divan, silently and methodically planning the gruesome punishments that he would arrange for each of them. Just at that moment a burly ferrash appeared by his side and whispered in his ear.

  ‘Quiet!’ screamed the Matamet, ‘quiet, all of you – or I will be using you to build a new extension to the castle!’

  The room fell to a hushed silence.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ trilled the Matamet, ‘we have a distinguished visitor.’

  He nodded to the ferrash, who left the room, only to return a few moments later, beckoning a newcomer to follow him.

  ‘It is our pleasure to receive Mehemet Taki Khan, great chief of the Bakhtiari, who has surrendered himself to the mercy and wisdom of our justice.’

  The Matamet rocked back on his seat, clapping his pudgy hands together with a faintly wet slapping noise.

  ‘May I see my son, now?’ demanded the Khan, staring defiantly at the Governor.

  A slow, sickly grin of triumph began to spread across the Matamet’s translucent face.

  Near to the river’s edge, Layard paced impatiently, waiting for Saleh’s return. The sun had set and the Lur was overdue. Nearby, and a little to his rear, a dry twig snapped. Layard turned to speak, expecting to find Saleh. Without warning, several shadowy figures emerged from the rocks and bushes around him, moving quickly and silently. Before Layard had time to do anything except emit a short cry of surprise, a dozen strong hands had seized him and a thick, coarse fabric was thrown over his head. Arms pinioned to his sides, blinded by the blanket or sack that had been fastened about him, he felt himself carried up by his silent captors and roughly heaved onto a horse. As he was bounced along in the darkness, Layard felt an attack of fever building.

  Exhausted, bound and helpless, Layard slipped slowly out of consciousness as his horse plodded on into the night.

  CHAPTER 20

  LAYARD AWOKE TO THE ALIEN FEEL OF LINEN SHEETS ON HIS BODY. His head swam and his weary, aching limbs rebelled against any attempt at movement. With an effort, he raised his head a few degrees and looked painfully around.

  He was in a small, neat room, fitted out in the manner of an officer’s camp quarters. Two large cabin trunks were arranged against the wall, above which had been hung a framed print of the young queen. Sunlight streamed in through a large window, adorned with a pair of incongruous lace curtains. Sitting in a pool of sunlight at a folding table was a European. He had paused in his inspection of some papers spread across the table to observe Layard.

  ‘Ah, the patient stirs,’ he said, kindly, betraying a soft Scottish accent. ‘How are we today?’

  ‘Stiff,’ croaked Layard, ‘and,’ he added looking down at his hands and arms, ‘clean.’

  He raised himself up with effort into a half-sitting position, thankfully accepting a glass of water from the man, who rearranged the bolster to help support him.

  ‘Take it easy, Mr Layard,’ he murmured, ‘you have been very ill. You need plenty of rest and plenty of water.’

  ‘Who are you?’ asked Layard, the water beginning to revive him.

  ‘My name is MacKenzie. I am the doctor here. I have been treating you for the past week for a very sever bout of intermittent fever.’

  ‘Where exactly is here?’ asked Layard.

  ‘At the British camp at Karak,’ replied Dr MacKenzie, gently taking Layard’s wrist and measuring his pulse. ‘You are quite safe here. You can relax and take some much needed rest.’

  Layard pushed the doctor’s hands away and sat up fully, swinging his legs with effort over the side of his camp bed.

  ‘What am I doing here?’

  ‘I think that would be best explained by Colonel Hemmell,’ soothed MacKenzie. ‘If you are feeling fit enough, there are some clothes in that trunk that will fit you. I am afraid that I had to order your other rags to be burned. I would counsel however against anything other than bed rest for the next few days.’

  By the time the doctor had finished speaking Layard was already pulling a shirt from the trunk. Pulling it on, he interrupted the doctor.

  ‘Where do I find Hemmell?’

  The Colonel’s office was in the far bungalow in an identical line of thatched, verandahed buildings that included Layard’s own quarters. Used to the colour and chaos of nomadic settlements, their uniformity and geometry seemed strange and a little ridiculous to Layard. As he made his way slowly along the line of buildings, he could see that they were situated on a small island, surrounded by a broad expanse of water. Distant hills marked its banks, dim and fading into the hazy air. A little to the left of the bungalows was a small busy dock, with a number of Arab boats moored and a larger steamer, flying a British flag. Along the shore, a series of small but well arranged artillery batteries were placed and fortified with wooden palisades and sandbags. To the rear of the bungalows was another line of smaller huts and an orderly camp of canvas tents and a series of wooden stockades, containing piles of barrels, bundles and crates. Above the camp the flags of both the Union and the East India Company fluttered in the light breeze blowing from the water.

  It was indeed Karak; an island in the Persian Gulf to which the British forces in Persia had withdrawn as relations between the countries had deteriorated. Across the water, the distant blue hills marked the Persian border. Somewhere, lost among them, were Layard’s Bakhtiari friends. He paused for a moment and looked into the shimmering heat, wondering if Hussein Kuli had been reunited safely with his father; whether the Khan had returned to Kala Tul and was making ready to fight the Matamet; whether Saleh had returned to their rendezvous to find him gone. Most of all, he wondered what he was doing in Karak and how he had come to be there. Anger building with each unanswered question, he turned and marched a little more quickly towards the Colonel’s office.

  ‘Come in Mr Layard.’

  The Colonel answered Layard’s sharp knock.

  ‘We are most honoured to have the company of such a scholarly gentleman,’ he bowed politely as Layard entered. ‘It is unusual for rough soldiers such as we to have the opportunity to entertain a man of letters. You must forgive us any shortcomings in our hospitality.’

  The Colonel moved across the room, to stand beside a tall bookcase. He was
dressed in elegant European costume, with the exception of a long embroidered Persian robe that he wore loosely, in the fashion of a surcoat. As he continued to speak, he ran his index finger absently over the spines of the books and without meaning to, Layard automatically read their titles.

  Army and Navy Lists, expedition accounts, biblical and philosophical treatises, political and social works by writers such as George Canning and Ben Disraeli’s father Isaac, volumes of the Quarterly Review – a Canto or two of Byron – the very essence of a British gentleman’s colonial library. Layard mused uncharitably that they had probably been supplied as a job lot by John Murray, who specialised in helping his overseas clients maintain an air of cultivation through the select supply of ready-made libraries.

  ‘I understand, Mr Layard,’ continued the Colonel, ‘that you are undergoing an heroic over-ground journey to Ceylon and have already had the opportunity to make a good many antiquarian and historical investigations on your way. I must confess that both I and my men are agog with expectation at what your account of such a journey will reveal. We are all fully expectant that you will grace us with some sort of lecture – or perhaps a series of lectures – once you are fully rested of course.’

  ‘With respect Colonel, I did not come here to deliver a lecture series – for that matter, I did not intend to come here at all. How is it that I am here?’

  ‘Of course, I forget myself. I must apologise. You can see how rapidly exposure to these barbaric regions chips away at the veneer of civilization. I should explain. You are at the British outpost at Karak, Sir, in the Persian Gulf. You are quite safely under Her Majesty’s protection.’

  ‘I know where I am, Colonel,’ replied Layard angrily. ‘How is it that I am here?’