Bell of the Desert

by Alan Gold

  “What? Is he mad?”

  “I’m afraid not. There a strong nationalist movement there and it’s gaining strength rapidly, but especially amongst the Hindus. There’s this chap called Gandhi. Mohandas Gandhi. He caused trouble for Smuts over in South Africa, and now he looks set to cause trouble for Hardinge in India. And we trained the bugger as a barrister in the Inner Temple in London, which makes it all the more galling. What Hardinge doesn’t need is trouble from the Muslims at the same time trouble is brewing from the Hindus.”

  “If I know anything about India, my dear, there’ll be more trouble between the Hindus and the Muslims than there will be between them and us. They hate each other with a vengeance, and each wants their own faith to be the dominant national religion. Terrible.”

  They continued to walk, both she and Percy deep in thought. The walking and the smells from his garden put her into the most euphoric mood she’d been in since falling sick two months earlier. But she sensed Percy was holding something back from her.

  “Come on, Percy, what is it?”

  His silence confirmed she was correct.

  “Percy . . . ?”

  “I have to admit I’m particularly glad you’re back, because we’ve got a bit of a situation right at the moment, and I really don’t know how to handle it. You see, this revolt against the Turks by the sharif has somewhat gone to his head. I’m afraid he’s crowned himself king.”

  “So? He’s the sharif. That means he’s sort of King of the Hejaz, and . . .”

  “No! He’s called himself the King of the Arabs . . . of all Arabia. He’s taken the title of caliph. It’s a tricky situation, because the other emirs and sheiks have rejected him outright.”

  “Oh dear!” she said. “That was a very imprudent thing for Hussein to do. Lawrence and I have been discussing whether he was suitable as the leader of all the Arabs, and we decided against it. The other leaders will only follow a man who proves himself to be worthy of following, not one who appoints himself without proof. I hope in my absence, Lawrence didn’t put that idea into the sharif’s head. And what of ibn Rashid?” She could barely mention his name without shuddering. Yet political expediency forced her to make an accommodation despite the fact that he’d been her jailer.

  “Ibn Rashid’s the biggest problem. We almost had him on our side, and now that Hussein has declared he’s the leader of the Arabs, ibn Rashid and ibn Sa’ud don’t want to know us. Despite the revolt and the minor tribes joining in on our side, I’m afraid Arab unity is further away than ever. It’s a very tricky situation, Gertie, and we need all hands on deck to solve it.”

  She nodded. “Well, time for mending bridges, then.”

  ~

  Bir Abbas, Kingdom of the Hejaz

  Thomas Lawrence strode between one gun emplacement and the next, checking that there was sufficient ammunition, and that the machine guns were ready to be fired the moment the Turks appeared over the horizon. But the real reason he was checking was to ensure the warriors were keeping their eyes open and remaining alert in the heat of the desert, and not being distracted by idle chatter or silly games. They were an ill-disciplined army at the very best of times. He’d attempted to discipline them, to teach them order, but the more he commanded, the more they ridiculed him behind his back. Every time he was in danger of losing them, Faisal would step in, and with a few words of command, they would square front, face up and behave like soldiers. It was discouraging. He’d imagined they would be like the wildcats which were led by Salah al-Din against Richard Coeur de Lion. That was the last time the Arabs had been united—the common threat of the Crusades—and Lawrence was coming to terms with the fact that he was no Saladin.

  Behind him walked Prince Faisal. Though both were dressed in the flowing white robes of important men of the kingdom, they were easy to tell apart. The prince was a good six inches taller than Lawrence, with dark leathery skin under the black beard which hid half of his face. Lawrence was only five feet, four inches tall due to a childhood attack of the mumps. But the main difference was Lawrence’s straw-yellow hair and blue eyes which made him look like he was the desert and the skies. Yet despite the outward difference in appearance, the men treated each other as brothers.

  As one thought, the other espoused the words. As one looked into the horizon, the other knew what pictures he was seeing, and what ideas were going through his mind.

  “I hope they get here soon, sir,” said Lawrence. “The worst thing for an army which is primed for a fight is to have the fight delayed. They become sloppy and careless and then disaster can strike.”

  The prince nodded. “Our intelligence tells us the latest reinforcements are heading for Mecca. Unless they go via Hong Kong or Singapore or the Antarctic this is the most direct route.”

  Lawrence smiled. So few Arabs had an understanding of the world beyond the boundaries of the desert. They stood on a tuft-covered hillock and surveyed the distant horizon for signs of the dust a Turkish company would make if it were on the march.

  “Have you ever thought of traveling to the Far East?” Lawrence asked.

  “One day, inshallah, I would like to visit Hong Kong and China and many other parts of the world. I have greatly enjoyed the travels I have undertaken so far. I like seeing other places, other realms.”

  Lawrence nodded, still surveying the horizon with his binoculars.

  “And you, my friend,” said the prince. “What travels have you undertaken outside of your journeys through the Holy Land and Arabia? As the son of a Lord, you must be welcomed wherever you go.”

  “Sir, although my father is a baronet, which is a fairly minor member of the Anglo-Irish aristocracy, my mother was the governess, and I was born out of wedlock. Because of the scandal of my father’s relationship with my mother, the family had to move from Ireland to Wales before we settled in Oxford.”

  “Really,” said the Prince. “I’m surprised. You seem to have a very close relationship with your family.”

  “I do. And I suppose I’m the embodiment of my family’s motto, which is virtue thrives under oppression, which just about sums up my life. Oppression, that is, not necessarily virtue.”

  “Oh come, Lawrence. You haven’t suffered oppression. You have no understanding of what oppression is. Wait until you’re a servant of another race, wait until you’re imprisoned at the whim of some overlord, wait until your land and everything you’ve worked for all your life are suddenly taken away from you at the whim of someone thousands of miles away whom you’ve never met, leaving you with nothing. These, my friend, are the marks of oppression.”

  Putting down the binoculars, Lawrence turned to the prince, smiling. “I have been oppressed, sir. Look at me! I’m shorter than most, I have a silly girlish giggly laugh, and I’m far cleverer than almost everybody I work with. I’m detested in the Arab Bureau in Cairo and in General Headquarters. They think I’m very odd, and can’t wait to see the back of me, and even the men I’m supposed to be commanding here look at you for permission whenever I give an order.”

  “That will change, Lawrence, when the men see your decisions bring the benefit of good results. I’ve seen you lead men. You have a gift. These are my men,” he said, sweeping his arm over the hundreds of fighters laying in the sand, their rifles at the ready for the oncoming train, “and they follow my commands, but it is different when you are standing beside me. I order them, and they look towards you for approval. Truly, you are a leader.”

  Lawrence remained silent, and after a few moments, said, “I wish my colleagues in the British Army felt that way, sir. I’m held in low regard, I’m afraid.”

  “But in the headquarters, surely you have good friends. What about Miss Bell? She’s your friend, isn’t she?”

  “She’s my dearest friend, sir. She doesn’t judge me. She enjoys my mind, my company, and she admires my love of the Arab people. I wish there were more like her.”

  The prince thought for a few moments. “Tell me, what is it about the Ar
ab people which attracts those such as you and Miss Bell? Is it the mystery of the desert? The way we look in our funny clothes, riding camels? What is it, Lawrence, which drives you and Miss Bell?”

  Lawrence turned and started to walk away from the hillock and back down to where the men were squatting for their surprise assault against the Turks. The prince followed him. “I don’t think I can explain it simply, sir. There’s certainly an element of mystery and exoticism in Arabia. It’s a world which is totally unknown to the vast majority of Englishmen.”

  “But so are the jungles of Africa and South America. Yet they don’t seem to hold out the same fascination as Arabia.”

  “Some are fascinated. But what you say is right—the desert seems to have some magical pull on the Englishman. Perhaps it’s because underneath the beautiful canopy of an English forest is mud and dirt, whereas the desert is simply pure. Drill down through the sand, and all you find is more sand, until eventually you find the bedrock of the very Earth itself. Nothing can hide from you in the desert, and you can’t hide from anything. It’s just you and the elements.”

  The Prince nodded, thinking about the allusion. Lawrence continued, “Or perhaps it’s the vastness of the landscape, where you can look into eternity. Poor England is tiny compared to Arabia, and we don’t seem to be able to settle our eyes on any far horizon. Or perhaps it’s the people of the desert—dark, swarthy, mysterious, dangerous, unknowable.” He remained silent for a few moments, cogitating, before saying, “but for me, I think it’s the purity of the desert when so much of the Earth is so hideous.”

  “Pure?” said Faisal, bursting out in laughter. “Pure? Our deserts are vast and relentless. Full of hazards which will kill an Englishmen piteously and without giving him a chance.”

  “Then if it’s not the purity, sir, maybe it’s because this land is painted with the world’s history,” said Lawrence.

  “Ah, now that could very well be true, Mr. Lawrence. Your fascination could be with our history? We were present at the very beginning of civilization. When Abraham set out from the banks of the Euphrates and began the journey which put man and Allah together for the very first time, it put an end to the darkness of primitivism, and enabled mankind to see clearly the truth of the world, that there is only one God, and that God is Allah.”

  Lawrence nodded. “While I respect your religious beliefs, sir, I fear my fascination with your history is more to do with its archaeology than its religion. And I believe this is true for the vast majority of Christians and Westerners. Islam is an unknown quantity to the Western mind. We’re only just coming to terms with Christianity. Only God knows how long it’ll take for us to come to terms with Allah.”

  The prince smiled at Lawrence’s remark. As they walked back towards the encampment, they were greeted by the hundreds of men at the machine gun emplacements. Some of them said, “Blessings be unto you and upon your family, Aurens,” finding difficulty in their tongue with the ‘L’ at the beginning of his name.

  They looked impressive, even though a more than cursory look would show that against an implacable enemy, performing real soldiering instead of ambush and guerrilla tactics, they’d be crushed. But the army of the Hejaz had certainly managed to claim some victories against the Turks in Mecca and had driven forward as a line pushing them back towards Medina, but these were little more than minor skirmishes, and the Arab uprising hadn’t yet happened. Perhaps because, against Lawrence’s advice, the sharif had arrogantly nominated himself as caliph of all Arabia, or perhaps because those such as ibn Rashid and ibn Sa’ud were watching the way the wind blew, the rest of Arabia seemed to be biding its time.

  “Tell me about Miss Bell. She is a fascinating woman. Have you and she been together as man and wife?”

  “She wouldn’t have me, sir. She says I’m too young and impetuous. Anyway, her true love died many years ago, and she’s consumed with love for his memory.”

  The prince and Lawrence continued to walk around the camp. Almost as an afterthought, Faisal said, “A woman such as Miss Bell needs a man. There is no question of that. She has done well to succeed in a man’s world, but she cannot continue to remain alone. When my work is done here, I will consider making her one of my wives.”

  Lawrence looked at the prince in astonishment. He wanted to warn him, but couldn’t think of any way to say it.

  ~

  Basrah, Mesopotamia, December, 1916

  Gertrude sat. Then she stood and paced the reception room. Then sat again, finally deciding to choose another chair so she had a better view of the door and the corridor it opened onto.

  Her colleague St. John Philby hissed, “Oh for God’s sake, Gertie, sit down and keep still. Anyone would think you’d never met an Arab leader before.”

  “Idiot!” she whispered. “This isn’t an Arab leader. This is ibn Sa’ud. The one and only! Here. In our headquarters. This visit could turn the entire war around.”

  “It’s all been seen to by our lords and master, Gertie, so this is just a formality. The potential for our winning this war has already improved since ibn Sa’ud signed the document of understanding in Kuwait, and since we made him Knight Commander of the Indian Empire.” said Colonel James.

  “And since we agreed to pay him five thousand quid a month, just to smile at us,” said Philby.

  Suddenly a car screeched to a halt, and the pipes and drums of the Poonah Regiment began to play God Save the King. Gertrude stood and was joined by all the other men in the room. They all stared at the door, which remained stubbornly closed. The army men remained at attention, despite the fact that all the activity was going on outside in the parade ground, but Gertrude and Philby and others who were Arabists relaxed until they heard noises and footsteps in the corridor.

  The door opened, and a huge Arab in a royal blue galabiyah and wearing a red and white checkered keffiyeh, showing he belonged to the people of whom ibn Sa’ud was supreme leader, entered and shouted, “All rise for His Most Serene Highness, Abd al-‘Aziz ibn ‘Abd ar-Rahman ibn Faysal ibn Turki ibn ‘Abd Allah ibn Muhammad Al Sa’ud.”

  The British remained standing. Gertrude held her breath awaiting the entry of the thirty-six-year-old ruler of half of Arabia. She’d seen drawings and photographs of him, and was intensely interested as to whether or not in life he’d look like his father whom, decades ago as a young girl, she’d managed to insult in a Romanian orchard.

  And when he made his entrance, she continued to hold her breath. It was like meeting ibn Sa’ud’s father once again, as though her adolescence had suddenly been catapulted into her presence. The son was six feet, three inches tall, wearing his people’s traditional red and white checkered keffiyeh and flowing white robes, his flesh like dark leather and his black pointed beard and aquiline nose making him look like a magnificent bird of prey. He towered both physically and emotionally over the entire room.

  Sir Percy, who was tall, seemed dwarfed beside him as the two strode into the room. He was introduced firstly to the senior ranking men of the army, and then to the most senior men of the Political Office, and by the time he got to Gertrude, she had begun to breathe again.

  As they arrived where she was standing, Sir Percy said, “Your Eminence, may I introduce Miss Gertrude Bell.”

  Smiling as sweetly as she knew how, Gertrude said in classical Arabic, “Abdul Aziz, it is an honor for this unworthy woman to meet your illustrious self in the hope that one day I might sit at your feet. Your reputation as a man of men proceeds you.”

  Ibn Sa’ud looked at her in surprise, and said to her in a classical tongue which none of the Englishmen in the room understood, “These other of your colleagues speak the language of the streets, whereas your Arabic is the voice of scholars.”

  “How may a mere woman who is also a scholar dare speak with a man of greatness whose arm is a sword and whose tongue is a dagger, other than in the most perfect and beautiful of languages?”

  “Your name again?” he asked admiringly.

>   “Gertrude Bell, Abdul Aziz. An unworthy subject of His Majesty George, the Fifth King of England who holds that great name.”

  Sir Percy grasped his arm gently and guided him to the next man in line. But even while he was being introduced, ibn Sa’ud couldn’t resist glancing back at Gertrude, who knew she’d made an impression. It was most unusual for a woman to be allowed to greet such an Arabic leader among a party of men, but a woman without a veil was unheard of. And she and Percy had agreed she should greet the sheik as a representative of the British Crown while ibn Sa’ud was within a British building in Basrah.

  As the party left the room, ibn Sa’ud seemed to delay for a moment. He stood filling the doorway, and turned to everybody, saying, “Thank you for your courtesy, gentlemen. Miss Bell, perhaps with the permission of Sir Percy, you could join me as I review your British technological superiority.”

  She looked at Percy, who nodded imperceptibly. She began to walk forward to join the notables, only to hear St. John Philby whisper to her, “Give him your body for England, but don’t let him bugger up your mind.”

  She turned and whispered back, “I think he already has.”

  She walked a respectful distance behind, and thought of the number of times their paths had crossed, yet she’d never met him and now that she was walking in his footsteps, she regretted it deeply. She knew much about him, of course. She knew he had sixty-five wives and he was probably the most daring and adventurous man in all of Arabia. He was the natural leader, rather than Faisal, the man who could unite all the Arabs. But unlike Faisal, ibn Sa’ud was a man who thought in a narrow sphere, and simply couldn’t be trusted, either by the British, or by the other Arab tribal leaders. Whatever he did, she knew he’d do only for himself.

  She would love to spend some time with him alone, not just because he was so important to British and Indian interests, but because he could fill in so many of the details about Arabia which were hazy in her mind, such as the way in which he’d recaptured his kingdom from the Rashids. Maybe one day, she’d discover the true story.