by Talbot Mundy
On top of that I turned another trick, as old as politics. If you want at least the appearance of obedience, order a man to do what he wants to do. Knowing what they wanted, I didn’t give them time to make demands, but announced mine high-handedly.
“Lead the way to Ibrahim ben Ah!” I commanded, and then added for the sake of sweet amenity: “Let us see what he has to tell us about changing camels!”
The situation was reversed forthwith. They began to be very friendly — almost obsequious. They addressed me as “Your Honors,” and Narayan Singh as “Prince,” he being ostensibly a Pathan, a nation that does not run to princes, but likes flattery almost as much as fighting. But they took the precaution of placing us in their midst before starting out of that infernal wady, and there were moments while we made the difficult ascent when it was mighty comforting to know that Narayan Singh was on the camel next behind. He had eyes in the back of his head.
Once out of the ravine, we lit out for the horizon at a clip too fast for conversation; and when they wanted to halt half-way and ask me questions, I refused. Our destination was a low, long, flat-topped hill scattered with boulders that looked like warts on the back of a rhinoceros. The green of a few date-palms at the right-hand end announced an oasis and the water that constitutes the key to all desert strategy. Whoever holds the wells commands that situation, and can oblige his adversary to fight in that place first.
We slowed down as we drew near the encampment, and Narayan Singh poured out the vials of his military scorn compared to which the scorn of one religious sect for another is as mere nursery stuff.
“Who could make a nation of such people!” he exclaimed. “Not a picket! Not an outpost! Not a sentry marking the camp limit! No wonder a tribe is strong one year and paying tribute the next! The very pick-pockets of India know better than to sleep without mounting a guard!”
But in spite of his contempt we were seen from a long way off, and although there was no guard turned out to receive us, the word had been passed to the commander several minutes before we reached the camp that two strangers were being brought in.
He was the only one who had a tent — a pretty obviously stolen one, for it bore all the earmarks of the U.S. Near East Relief Commission. He did not come outside it to receive us. We could see him from a quarter of a mile away, seated on a pile of cushions, looking like an Old Testament king with his iron-grey beard and long robes.
As soon as we came within range of his eyes through the open tent-front our escort tried to stage what the armies call “eyewash,” but failed to get away with it. They closed in on us, seeking to give the impression that we were prisoners. However, eyewash, which is after all but the name of a sub-species of bluff, was all that Narayan Singh and I had to depend on; so we halted promptly, and used our tongues and camel sticks.
“Fathers of a bad smell!” I roared at them. “Shall we approach Ibrahim ben Ah stinking like unwashed village dogs! Keep clear of us! Keep behind!”
And because of the likelihood of retribution if they should be seen handling us roughly, in the possible event of our finding favour, they obeyed and hauled off.
So we rode alone in advance, looking more like officers of a platoon than prisoners. The bivouac was made at the foot of the northern slope of the hill, with the camels lying in irregular lines all about a row of three deep wells, whose masonry gleamed in the fierce sunlight between thrifty date-palms. Most of the men were sprawling here and there on mats. Some had made shelters of their prayer-mats propped on short sticks, and there was one long shed that would hold thirty or forty men made by spreading mats on poles across the heaped-up camel-loads. They had plenty of baggage with them — mainly stuff to eat — but the loads were all intact and ready to be moved at a moment’s notice.
Whether for sake of example, or by way of humor, or as a hint to strangers, or as a practical artistic means of establishing the limit of the bivouac, they had stuck Yussuf’s head on a spear-point, and the ghastly, sightless thing leered at us as we rode by. There was no sign of the other remnants of him.
I never got over feeling squeamish about that kind of thing, and the feeling of more or less confidence that I had raised in myself by brow-beating the escort petered out pretty badly. Narayan Singh didn’t appear to mind the gruesome spectacle, but feelings in concrete instances like that are individual, and his indifference failed to impart itself to me. His own may have been assumed for all I know.
The escort shouted to us to dismount and approach Ibrahim ben Ah respectfully on foot — which would have placed us in the attitude of inferiors. It is none of my intention to challenge Holy Writ, and the meek may inherit the earth with no impediment from me, but I maintain there are occasions when meekness is a dangerous weakness. Besides, I don’t like abject salutations when addressed to me. Mistrusting, as I invariably do, any man who shows me too much outward respect, it’s no less than reasonable to reverse that and hold my chin as high as I expect the other fellow to. Anyway, I’ve always done it, and I did so then.
We rode straight up to Ibrahim ben Ah’s tent and let our camels kneel before dismounting. Then, in our own good time, Narayan Singh taking his cue from me out of the corner of his eye, we gave the desert greeting that is solemn, stately, dignified, raising our hands to our foreheads as we bowed.
“Salamun alaik!” said I.
“Wa alaik issalam!” answered Ibrahim ben Ah.
Greeting and answer both meant “Peace!” So thus far all was well.
CHAPTER VII. “Akbar Ali Higg!”
The last time we set eyes on Ibrahim ben Ah was in the desert on the way to Petra, on the occasion of our capturing Jael, when he strode into our midst at midnight to receive orders from Grim, whom he supposed in the darkness to be Ali Higg, and strode away again without comment. It was likely he knew neither of us by sight, for he can’t have had more than a side-wise glimpse of either of us in the always tricky moonlight; but I would have known him in any circumstances, for he was one of those rare individuals who leave their impress ineradicably on your mind, unlike Grim, who seems to have the useful gift of fading, so that every time you see him after an interval you remark something unexpected about him that seems new.
You can’t forget what Grim has done, nor how he did it, although it’s difficult to describe him because his features are not easy to recall. You could very easily forget what Ibrahim ben Ah had done, and his methods were too crude and cruel to possess the slightest novelty; but you couldn’t forget his face and general appearance if you tried for twenty years.
He was a handsome old fellow, with the venerable aspect rather spoiled by the breadth of his nose and the cold acquisitiveness of keen blue eyes. You expected them to be brown, and it was rather a shock when you saw they weren’t. Most men look smaller when seated, especially if the seat is a mat or a pile of cushions, but not so he. The position merely increased his dignity. He wore quite a lot of jewelry, including several diamond rings that called attention to the great size of his shapely hands, which were wrinkled and brown, but strong as iron. Most of his garments, except the striped outer cloak, were of silk, but, unlike most of his men, who wore plundered boots of every conceivable pattern, his bare, brown feet were only shod with open sandals.
He had the usual allowance of two bandoliers, a British service rifle, a revolver and two knives in sight; and they were probably only a suggestion of the armory he kept hidden from view in the ample folds of his cloak. When he moved there was a suggestive clink of hardware. On the whole, I am inclined to think his main secret of command was hypnotic; he was so used to the receipt and execution of ruthless orders, and so bent on being obeyed that authority exuded from him like an aura. I made up my mind right away that to humor him would only tickle his vanity. His men were within easy hail, and ten or twelve ruffians were standing almost within earshot; but inside the tent there were two of us to one of him, and if there was going to be any high-handed business I had a notion who would be first to regret it. Instead
of waiting for him to speak first and standing respectfully in front of him, as ninety-nine Indians out of any hundred would have done, I squatted down on the floor-mat, motioned to Narayan Singh to do the same, and opened on him with an awkward question.
“What is this tale we hear?” I demanded. “Ali Higg sends us to find Ali Baba. Ali Baba tells us that you are afraid to advance on Abu Lissan. What does it mean?”
He was dumbfounded. There were probably not more then three people in the world who had dared to question him like that for several years past.
“Where is Ali Baba, and who are you that ask such a question?” he demanded after a long pause.
“Ali Baba,” said I, “is obeying orders, conveyed from the Lion himself by me to him. He has gone back to tell the Lion all that he has seen and heard. As to who I am, Mashallah! are the Lion’s envoys called in question?”
“You are a stranger to me,” he retorted.
“Not so,” said I. “I was with the Lion on the night when he ordered you to that oasis on the way to El-Maan. I am the hakim, who healed his boils. This other is my servant. I am a darwaish from Lahore, well versed in such matters as pertain to the offsetting of greater force by strategy and cunning. Therefore I am now employed by Ali Higg to aid him in confounding the Avenger.”
“Cunning?” he said, with the suggestion of a wry smile. “You look more like a bold man than a cunning one. Let us hope you are the father of deceit, for as surely as this right hand strikes my left, not the Prophet himself could have prevailed in his day against such numbers as we have against us!”
He suited action to the word by bringing down his right fist into his left palm with a loud clap.
As I have said several times, I am no strategist. That trick would have got by me. But Narayan Singh was too alert for him, and before the nearest men could come running in answer to the signal Ibrahim ben Ah’s cold old eyes were staring disconcertedly straight down the muzzle of a Webley revolver.
All the odds were dreadfully against us except one, but that lone one outweighed the rest. In common with the normal run of men old Ibrahim ben Ah was unprepared to die, and something in his inner consciousness convinced him — accurately as it happened — that Narayan Singh would pull the trigger, and not miss, unless he sent the men away as swiftly as he had summoned them.
I was afraid for a second that he was going to be too late, in which case, I suppose this story would never have been told, although Ibrahim ben Ah and half a dozen others would certainly have preceded us to hammer at the gates of Kingdom Come. The old rascal was so surprised that words stuck in his throat, and I drew my own repeating pistol in readiness to make a last stand alongside Narayan Singh. But Ibrahim barked out an order in the nick of time, and almost at the tent-door the men halted, and turned away without having seen what was happening because the Sikh’s broad back was turned toward them.
Ibrahim ben Ah screwed up a smile that showed the gold caps on the eye- teeth when the men were once more out of earshot and Narayan Singh lowered the revolver.
“Ye act like men who are afraid!” he sneered. “Ye fear without cause. By Allah, I am a man who is well served, and if my men mistake a chance noise for a summons, that is no reason why honest men should tremble for their lives.”
But if anyone was trembling it was he, and not with fear but anger almost too intense to be suppressed. Having won the upper hand of him mainly through Narayan Singh’s presence of mind, it was up to us to hold it, and about as certain as anything well could be that the old man would reverse the situation at the first chance.
“I asked a question that you haven’t answered yet,” said I. “By the Prophet’s feet this is a fine reception for the Lion’s messengers! A strange tale we shall have to tell him!”
“Aye!” he croaked, moving his Adam’s apple several times in rapid succession as he choked down his rising passion. “A very strange tale, on top of stranger happenings! I would like to see how Ali Higg with twenty men can make me move with a hundred four and forty! First it was toward the British border I was sent, to raid El-Maan, which was feasible; there is loot there for the taking. Then I was told to cool my heels in that oasis. Now it is to march on Abu Lissan, where we have no chance at all, and I am sick of the changing orders from day to day. By Allah, who am I to be ordered about like a bought slave? And who in the name of the Prophet is Ali Higg, that he should play fast and loose with me? I will not march on Abu Lissan, and that is all about it!”
I laughed. I couldn’t think of anything to say for the moment. If Ali Higg’s main force was going to mutiny, I didn’t see that Grim had much chance left in checkmating the Avenger and restoring a kind of order on the countryside. My main trouble is that I think too slowly to be of much use in a crisis of that kind; but Narayan Singh stepped nobly into the breach.
“By Allah’s Prophet and my teeth!” he boomed out. “Say thy prayers, Ibrahim! These men who obey thee at a handclap shall choose between you and a woman presently!”
“Jael has returned to Petra,” he answered, rather smugly.
Narayan Singh had had Ayisha in mind, not Jael; but here was a new note in the discord. Evidently Jael had got word to Ibrahim by one of those three messengers who brought news to Ayisha in the night; and Ibrahim had drawn his own conclusions.
I saw clearly now the strength of Grim’s contention in refusing to divulge his plans. If he had outlined any definite course for us to follow I would have felt bound by it; whereas I was free to use my own judgement, as it was. If Ibrahim ben Ah had determined, as seemed possible, to desert with all his force to the Avenger rather than run the risk of defeat, we stood confronted with a fine kettle of fish. The Avenger would be free, for one thing, to establish himself as paramount chief of all that district; success would breed success; next, he might capture El-Kerak — perhaps Es-Salt as well — and raid like a whirlwind into Palestine with thousands of loot-hungry malcontents.
From my personal standpoint I wouldn’t have worried much if the Avenger should accomplish all those things, for sooner or later he would be brought to bay and smashed by the British Army. It didn’t seem to me that the price of U.S. Government securities would be affected. But I was set like any decent member of a team on seeing Grim win out. You can’t like a man and not do your darnedest to help him win the game, even if it isn’t your game exactly. And my game it was, to the extent that Narayan Singh’s life and mine were teetering in the balance.
You can’t explain thought processes, or at any rate I can’t. Something takes place inside your tympanum, and you act or speak. If the grey stuff functions neatly, you say or do the right thing; then you’re a wise one. If it doesn’t, the temporary lessees of other sorts of cerebellums describe you afterwards as a fool or a poor fish, while someone cashes in on the insurance and the undertaker makes another entry in his ledger. So don’t put me down as a psychologist, for I’m only guessing when I say that keenness on the job has a lot to do with inspiration. To state a case with proper caution, “I’ve observed” that when you’re really keen to help another man you’re more likely to do the right thing than the wrong one, even in the dark.
“Have you heard about Jimgrim?” I asked him, and the question went straight as a bullet into the very centre of his perplexity. So I’m a wise one, even though I did shoot at a venture.
“Heard of him? May Allah change his face!” he snarled. “Aye, I have heard of him. What do you know of him? What is he doing, prowling the desert with twenty men, and sending me messages? They say he resembles Ali Higg, even to the wrappings on his neck. What is his purpose?”
“Tell me what message he sent you, and perhaps I can answer,” said I.
“He sent word to me at dawn today to run no risks, but to wait in this place until he shall speak with the Avenger. What does that mean?”
It obviously meant that the Lion of Petra pretending to be Grim (even as Grim was pretending to be the Lion of Petra) was venturing on the risky course of trading on Grim’s
reputation. How he could hope to escape being recognized by the Avenger, whose face he boasted of having spoiled, was past imagining; but it was easy to understand why he should want to keep Ibrahim ben Ah inactive until he should have a chance to try the trick.
“What does his impudence mean?” Ibrahim repeated. But I am too old a bird to be caught airing my knowledge at the first request. Information, like hard cash, is for use, not squandering.
“Why didn’t you catch him and find out?” I asked.
“Wallahi! If I could have caught him I would have flayed the fool alive! I sent two-score men after him, but he was gone. Does the Lion know about him?” he asked with sudden suspicion. “Is Ali Higg employing him to make terms with the Avenger?”
But I hedged again. If I could keep Ibrahim ben Ah from deserting to the other side by stimulating doubt, that looked like good business.
“I am in the Lion’s confidence,” said I. “Tell me what you know of Jimgrim; then — dates in exchange for rice, camels for horses, sheep for wheat — if the trade looks good I will tell what I know in return.”
“Jimgrim,” he said slowly, speaking through his teeth, as a man does when he mentions sacrilege, or anything else that he detests, “is an Amiricani; an infidel, who has been to Mecca, to my knowledge, in disguise. He was useful to Feisul and Lawrence in the Great War, when we Arabs defeated the Turks, and the Allies took the credit and the plunder. He is a bold man, with the cunning of a hundred. And he once saved a day for Saoud the Avenger by getting camels for him when the Turks had captured most of the Avenger’s beasts.”
