Bell of the Desert

by Alan Gold

  “Delighted to meet you, Your Royal Highness,” said Booth.

  “And to what do we owe the honor of your visit?” Faisal asked.

  Sir Alistair had two choices. The first was to ask for a private meeting with the Sharif, thereby insulting Faisal who could be useful to the British government in the future. The other was to include him, and hope he had the sensibility to keep the contents of the meeting in the utmost of secrecy.

  “Your Royal Highnesses. I bring you the very warmest greetings from His Majesty’s government. The Prime minister has instructed me especially to pass on his personal regards to you and your family.”

  “And,” said the Sharif, “please tell Mr. Asquith that all Arabia and all Muslims wish him a long and contented life with nothing but peace and prosperity.”

  “I shall pass on your greetings, Majesty. Sirs, I am here to speak to you of a very delicate situation which has recently arisen in Europe, and to ask . . .”

  “You speak of the assassination of the crowned prince of the Austro-Hungarian Empire,” interrupted Faisal.

  Astonished that the news had already reached the desert kingdom, Sir Alistair looked at the younger man. “I do indeed, sir.”

  “You’re surprised that I know of the reason of your call. Don’t be, Sir Alistair,” continued Faisal. His father was looking at him, smiling with pride and pleasure, and Faisal knew it was because he’d managed to out-fox the fox of Britain.

  Faisal continued, “Anybody who is a keen observer of world politics knows the consequences of the assassination of Franz Ferdinand. This will lead Austria-Hungary to invade traditional Serbian lands. Russia will react adversely, but because of the Triple Entente will be forced to side with France and Great Britain. Germany will be brought into the war, though this will hardly come as a surprise, because the Kaiser has been looking for any excuse. And then all Europe will be at war. Am I correct, Sir Alistair?”

  “Indeed you are, Your Highness,” said the British emissary. He was motioned to a seat and sat down beside the Sharif. Settling himself, and accepting a cup of coffee from the servant, Sir Alistair continued, “Your assessment of the situation in Europe is very much along the lines which His Majesty’s government believes events will happen. But a crucial element of your evaluation is missing . . .”

  Again, the younger man interrupted. “The Turkish Empire? The Ottomans? Naturally, I assume we’re all in agreement that Constantinople will act in its own interests against the widening interest of Great Britain and France in this area. The Turks will look upon this as an opportunity to re-establish their flagging empire in Egypt and the rest of the Middle East. The desert kingdoms have long been struggling to throw off the shackles of the absentee landlords of the Bosphorus. With Europe distracted in a war, what better time to attack the colonial interests of Britain and France, and side with Germany and Austria-Hungary?”

  Sir Alistair sipped his coffee. He’d come here prepared to explain the immensely complex situation to a desert tribal leader, and suddenly he was faced with a sophisticated young man who knew what was happening in the world.

  “Your Highness is very astute,” he said.

  “Perhaps, Sir Alistair, I can be even more astute by foretelling the purpose of your visit. You are here to ensure the Kingdom of the Hejaz joins the Kingdom of Great Britain in any future fight which you might have against the Turks. Your visit is to ensure we don’t join forces with Constantinople, and thereby create an even greater army for you to fight against. Am I correct, Sir Alistair?”

  “You’re correct, sir.”

  Having proven himself a match for the wily old army officer and diplomat, Prince Faisal withdrew from the fray, bowed respectfully to his father, and regained his seat on the divan.

  “My dear Sir Alistair,” said the Sharif, sensing the General’s growing discomfort, “my son Prince Faisal was merely assuring you that, although we are people of the desert, and although we are what might be loosely known at present as a client state of the Ottoman Empire, we are not a people disconnected from the rest of the world. Faisal’s display of his understanding of our situation was merely to assure you that any decision which we come to will be based on our own perception of where our own interests lay.”

  Sir Alistair stiffened. “Does that mean you might not join with Great Britain should the Turks enter the coming war and side with German?”

  “It doesn’t mean that at all, Sir Alistair,” said the Sharif. “It merely means that for most of the past millennium, the Arabs have been the subject to foreign occupiers, and that if the whole world is turned upside down by this assassination, it’s only right that we Arabs should look after our own interests.”

  Sir Alistair began to argue, but the Sharif put up his hand to tell him to remain silent. “We have been a people subservient to others for too long, Sir Alistair. Even before the occupation of Arabia by the Seljuks, we were not allowed to be ourselves. After them came the Ayyubids, then the Monguls, then the Mamluks and then the Ottomans. I can’t even remember how many conquerors we had in between. And now suddenly Europe is interested in the Middle East, with the French and the British trying to exert their influence over our Arab lands. How long before Germany and Russia look with envy upon our access to the Far East, and our warm waters. And what if these reports about oil being found underneath our sand are correct? What then, Sir Alistair?”

  “Oil is of little interest to Great Britain, Your Majesty,” he said. “Our ships and our industry run on coal, of which Britain has an infinite supply.”

  The Bell advisory note had instructed him to play down what would become increasingly important to Britain, and that was Arab oil, so he dismissed what the Sharif said out of hand.

  “Yet Mr. Churchill is set upon the path of converting all of your war machines and your industry to oil, Sir Alistair,” Faisal interrupted.

  Sir Alistair started to explain, but the Sharif continued, “But please don’t think all this means that we will fight against you. Better the enemy who can advance your interests and modernise you, than the enemy who will keep you in chains. Eh, Sir Alistair?”

  “Great Britain is not your enemy, Highness,” he insisted.

  “Perhaps not, Sir Alistair, but is it our friend?”

  The conversation lasted another half an hour, and Sir Alistair took his leave. He emerged satisfied from the palace and walked to his carriage. He had been briefed only the previous morning by a top secret diplomatic telegram from the Foreign Office, and to have arranged an interview at such short notice in Jeddah with the Sharif had been a singular feat. As to the double entendres which both father and son had so gleefully been uttering, well, that was something which either the British government in India or the British Egyptian Office would have to consider. He, thank God, had done his duty and now as a Senior British Military Advisor in the Middle East, he was going to return to his office in Cairo, and have a drink. The journey northward up the Red Sea to the Gulf of Suez would relax him and the one hundred mile drive by motor-car from Suez, across the desert into Cairo, would put him in dire need of a whisky and soda. He was particularly looking forward to the camaraderie of the Senior Officer’s Mess after the enforced abstinence from alcohol in the Kingdom of Hejaz.

  But before he managed to walk to his waiting vehicle, Prince Faisal suddenly emerged from one of the side doors of the palace, and paced across the ground.

  “A moment more of your time, Sir Alistair.”

  The general stopped, and waited for the young man.

  “Perhaps we could drive together to the docks. There’s a matter I need to discuss with you.”

  Sir Alistair felt himself compromised. “Sir, I must respectfully remind you that I came here as advisor to His Majesty, and not to His Majesty’s son.”

  Peremptorily, Prince Faisal stepped into the automobile. Sir Alistair was given no alternative but to follow. Seeing two passengers in the rear seats, the driver rotated the starting handle beneath the radiator, and when t
he car rocked on its axis and then coughed into life, immediately ran around from the front and jumped into his seat, depressing the accelerator so it didn’t falter.

  Faisal slid the glass partition closed so the driver wouldn’t be able to hear what was being said, and the car jerked forward on its journey towards the dock.

  Sir Alistair remained silent, deciding it was up to young Faisal to compromise himself. The less Alistair said, the better.

  “Tell me,” asked the young man. “What would Mr. Asquith and the British government do if we in the Kingdom of the Hejaz followed the family of the Sa’uds, and fought alongside the Turks against your country?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Nothing! Our fight is going to be with Germany. If the Ottoman government in Constantinople is impelled into the war by these Young Turks, so be it. We have enough men in this area to deal with such an event, and vast numbers in India which we’ll call upon. Don’t forget, sir, that the British government in India sees this area, the Middle East, as coming under its control. They’re not going to stay out of the war. Not by a long shot.”

  Faisal remained silent for some moments. “But don’t you understand what would happen if British troops from India came into this arena. It would cause you all manner of problems on the Sub-Continent. India would erupt, for it would be a signal to the Indian Independence Movement to rise up and revolt against British Imperial rule. Your foreign secretary himself warned of that possibility with diplomats in London not two weeks ago. And it’s not just the Indian Hindus with whom you’ll have a problem if you send your armies into this region. The millions of Indian Muslims look towards the Ottoman Sultan as their spiritual leader, so how could they possibly refuse to support their brothers in Constantinople if Great Britain went to war against the Turks? Their revolt against the British would act as a match on gunpowder when the Hindus see their English masters distracted, and they, too, would rise up and revolt against you. The whole of the subcontinent would become revolutionary, and you certainly couldn’t afford to show weakness and lack of resolve at a crucial moment such as this. You wouldn’t risk losing India, just for Arabia, would you? Isn’t that right, Sir Alistair? You wouldn’t send your Indian army here to fight the Turks if there was a danger of your losing India? Or is the oil of Persia actually far more important to you than you were prepared to admit in front of my father?”

  “Your Royal Highness seems to forget that we have millions of young men in Great Britain who would join up in moments to fight for the empire. My government’s decisions aren’t based on what is done in Mecca or Medina. This war, if there is to be a war, will be fought in Europe by the nations of Europe. The Middle East is merely a sideshow.”

  “A sideshow? But what about Persia’s oil? And the real prospect that we have vast amounts of undiscovered oil beneath our desert? The early results are looking very encouraging.”

  Sir Alistair grinned. “Might I remind you of what I said to your father, sir. Great Britain runs on coal. That’s been the source of our wealth for centuries, and we have limitless supplies beneath our earth. And remember also, Prince Faisal, that for over a hundred years, since the beginning of our British industrial revolution, we have stood resolute and alone. And we are now the most powerful empire the world has ever known. Persia might have oil, sir, but we have British ingenuity.”

  Again, Faisal remained silent. The car continued towards the dock. Suddenly, the young prince said, “You will need this area’s oil, Sir Alistair. If not today, then certainly tomorrow. And to secure it, you’ll need my help. What if I was to persuade all other Arabic rulers, here and in Mesopotamia and Syria and Palestine to rise up against the Turks—to join together for once as a united Arab nation, and to fight with Great Britain and throw off the shackles of the Turks which have been restraining us for hundreds of years? This could be the moment when all Arabia comes together as one. Then we would truly be a great nation. What about that, Sir Alistair?”

  The general looked across at the young man. “Sir, the chances of your being able to convince all of your brother sheiks and chieftains and emirs to join with you are extremely remote. Unity has never been a part of the Arab mind. At heart, you’re a nation of individuals, of nomads, of wanderers. You have no heart for pan-Arabism. You and your people have never developed beyond the level of the tribe. You know as well as I do the Arabic nation is a fiction . . . that you’re only a collection of families and clans and groups. That doesn’t make you a nation.

  “Look, Prince Faisal, for the time being, why not just simply agree to join with us, and we’ll look after you. Then, when the war’s over, you can . . .”

  Suddenly Faisal leaned forward, opened the partition, and said to the driver, “Stop here. I’ll get out now.”

  The young man opened the car, and said to the surprised British officer, “Don’t worry about my father’s decision, Sir Alistair. We will give Great Britain six hundred thousand men to fight the Turks. We people of the desert have a saying. An army of sheep led by a lion will defeat an army of lions lead by a sheep. You’re right, we are an undisciplined and isolationist people, and for a thousand years, we have been led by sheep. We will easily be defeated by the Turks if we alone rise up against them and we will be demolished by the British if we fight for the Turks. But if a man was to rise up and show the Arabs the value of nationhood, of fighting the Turks and being led by the British lions . . . well, Sir Alistair . . . isn’t that something to contemplate? Provided, of course, that eventually the old lion returns to its lair and leaves us alone after the kill.”

  And with that, he left the astonished general and disappeared into the crowds of the shuk.

  SIX

  General Command Headquarters

  Military Intelligence Office

  Ismailia, Egypt, November 1915

  Exhausted after an entire day in the office working closely with maps and writing reports, Gertrude returned to her suite in the Hotel Continental in Ismailia on the western banks of the Suez Canal, and eighty miles to the northeast of Cairo. Despite of the beauty of the hotel, or the delightful green zone which had been created for Western residents, Gertrude was too tired even to remove her shoes. She fell onto the bed, lit a cigarette, and swore at the ceiling. They weren’t the words a lady could ever say in public, but shouting “shit shit shit” at the fan was an outlet for her frustrations and usually made her feel much better.

  Reaching for a wet towel, she cooled her face and then drank a glass of whisky and soda which had been prepared for her by her servant. Then she lay on the bed watching the ceiling fan slowly undulate back and forth, pulled by unseen hands far below her, and creating a gentle breeze which gave her relief. Even in the month of November, Ismailia was still oppressively hot and clammy.

  But the humidity and the workload weren’t the reasons she returned to her empty room every night in a state of anger and frustration. She’d done everything in her power to warn the British government that the coming war was likely to produce the most horrific results, but because she was a woman, she’d been patronized and forced to suffer the condescension of men who held government office and military rank. Some, certainly, were excellent, perceptive and wise, but so many, from generals down to majors, from government ministers down to parliamentary private secretaries, listened to her with a knowing smirk on their faces and ignored almost every word of advice she gave. And why? Because she wore skirts and scarves and blouses. Once, she’d turned up to a meeting with the First Lord of the Admiralty in trousers, just to see if it would make any difference. But he pretended to ignore the modern fashions and she felt as if she were a ghost sitting at the table.

  While she was still in London waiting to be of service to the empire, she’d weep at the sight of the Zeppelins bombing the dockyards of the Thames and at the German planes flying over Finchley and Hampstead Heath on their way to obliterate munitions factories in the north of London, knowing that her letters about the need t
o put all efforts into building up a strong air force as well as a navy, had been ignored. Somehow, the idiotic generals thought the battle would be won against the Hun using men on horses doing cavalry charges.

  Just before she left London, when the dirigibles from the Zeppelin and Schütte-Lanz factories droned overhead, huge, monstrous balloons which made her feel violated and vulnerable, she had begun standing on the balcony of her home in Kensington, looking up at the sky, and screaming out swearwords. She had hoped the din of the dirigibles would drown out her intemperate language, until an Able Seaman passing beneath her balcony had shouted up, “You tell the fuckers, darling.” Laughing, he’d walked beyond her, not seeing how mortified she was that he’d heard her.

  For the most part, and especially in England, she’d managed to hide her frustrations and retain her outward composure and positive demeanor. To her friends with whom she dined in the cafes or purchased things in the shops on Burlington Arcade or the Strand, Gertrude Bell looked as though she had everything. She was working on hush-hush military and government things to do with the war, and consorting on vital issues with the most influential people in the land. She was the guest of honor at literary and political dinner parties. She was recognized in fashionable theaters where her entrance into a box was occasionally applauded by the audience and, even more remarkably, Gertrude was given a standing ovation when she walked into the dining room of Claridges where only the very top people in England dined. But despite her growing acclaim by the British people, Gertrude knew that to the people who mattered, to senior military and government men, she was being marginalized because of her sex, and it was making her increasingly furious.