by Alan Gold
“Nonsense,” Lawrence whispered. “I know of Sir Mark, and he wouldn’t do this. I don’t know the other gentleman. What’s he been up to?”
The prince didn’t answer directly, but continued. “And I assume you also don’t know that Russia and Italy are eager to get their teeth into our land, unable to restrain themselves from participating in the carving up of our Arabia and all its oils and fertility.”
“Sir, I swear to you this is all new to me.”
“I believe you, Mr. Lawrence. Like me you’ve been in the desert for a long time, but unlike me you’re reliant on information which comes to you from your British colleagues, whereas I have friends in many places. Decisions are made above our heads, and we only learn of them later. This is the tragedy of men such as you and me. These decisions are made by vultures flying high in the sky looking for pickings on the ground. Men such as us are forced to deal with whatever they might leave behind.”
“Like I say, I know Mark Sykes. He’s a diplomat and an MP. He served with the British Army against the Boers. I know he’s done a lot of traveling in Arabia, but . . .”
“More than traveling, Lawrence. I’m reliably informed by our Arab friends in London that Sykes and Picot have put together a scheme for spheres of influence in Arabia after the war. They’ve even involved the Russian government because of the Turkish assaults in the Black Sea. My friends in London found out about the plan from a very drunk and very unwise diplomat, and they are naturally upset. It seems Russia will be given Armenia and some of the Kurdish territories, and France is to be given Syria including the Syrian coastlands of the Mediterranean, as well as Beirut and the lands between Cilicia and the Upper Tigris, and Great Britain will be given southern Mesopotamia and the lands of the Tigris and the Euphrates, including Baghdad and Basrah and Khanaqin. Great Britain will also wield its influence over the Palestine ports of Haifa and Akko. However, the holy Christian places of Palestine shall be given to some international body to protect them. Interestingly, they do not feel that the holy places of Islam, Mecca and Medina, are worth considering at this stage.”
Lawrence felt as though his legs were turning to water. It had always been a possibility, but he never thought it would happen, not after the assurances he’d been given by Gertrude and Sir Percy and others. He couldn’t believe what he was being told. Yes, the betrayal of the Arab Revolt was something often mooted in the Officer’s Mess at Cairo, but it was nothing more than talk by ignorant army men who didn’t understand and who detested the Arabs, describing them as surly, dirty and ignorant. But now, suddenly, and courtesy of the diplomats and politicians, it had become a reality.
“This cannot be, Highness. You’re wrong! Your friends are wrong! I have been instructed to liaise with you in this revolt because we in Britain are committed to a partnership with the Arab world. Surely you must realize this is what Gertrude Bell has been spruiking throughout the corridors of Whitehall? Arabic nationalism is the way forward, not Arabia being a part of the British Empire. And an equal partnership with you after the defeat of Turkey. A partnership, Faisal, between equals. The whole basis of asking you to rise up on our behalf was to assure you the Arabs would control Arabia after we’d won the war. Yes, we would be here, but it was always meant to be your land. Sir, I can’t believe that—Allenby gave his word—the British Government—Miss Bell assured me—”
“It’s true, I’m afraid, Major Lawrence. There is no mistake. Believe me,” said the prince.
Lawrence remained silent for some time as the two walked slowly towards the rising sun. “I don’t know what to say, Prince Faisal,” he said.
“Oh, but that’s not the end of the story, my friend. Some time ago, your foreign secretary, Mr. Balfour, with the complete agreement of Mr. Lloyd George, wrote a letter to Baron Rothschild, who is the leader of Britain’s Jewish community, in which he gave assurances of your government’s support for a national homeland for the Jewish people in Palestine. Yet we were never consulted. I find that somewhat strange, Mr. Lawrence, especially as it probably includes Jerusalem, one of the holiest sites of Islam.”
“But we can’t have Palestine flooded by Jews. The Arabs will never—”
“I disagree. Jews are among the ancient inhabitants of this land, and need to return to fulfil their destiny. All I demand is that they respect our holy places. For centuries, Jews and Arabs have lived in peace, worshipping the same God. They are a worldly people who have been separated from their Temple for two thousand years. Yet despite having no land of their own, look at their achievements. They are modern and industrious and knowledgeable. And most important, they are international. They have contacts in every corner of the world. They will bring commerce to our lands, as well as trade, factories and offices and international connections. They, far more than the British, will be of great value to us in the development and modernisation of Arabia when the turkey is carved up.”
He laughed at his own joke, but Lawrence was in no mood of humour. He was thinking deeply, and asked, “I’m stunned by this news. How do you know these things? How did you know about this letter from Lord Balfour, this agreement between Sykes and-and-whatever the Frenchman’s name is?”
“Picot. A French minister. How do I know? My Arabic friends in London are close to senior diplomats in your Foreign and Empire Service who advise your government. These men are favourably disposed to the current Russian government, trying to keep it in power and to defeat the ambitions of Mr. Lenin and Mr. Trotsky and the other revolutionaries who want to spread the ideas of Karl Marx to their people. My friends are very angry that Britain has broken its word to the Arabic peoples, and will almost certainly interfere in Russian politics. But all these things are not of concern to me at the moment.
“You see, Lawrence, the point isn’t how I know, it’s what I should do with this information. If I were to tell my father and brothers and the other Arab leaders what I have been told, especially now we are so close to victory over the Turks, they would howl treason. We are following Britain’s desires like faithful friends, putting our trust in your word. We Arabs are often accused of stabbing our friends in the back. Now it appears we Arabs have been on the pointed end of your diplomatic dagger. Your government assured us that when the Arabs rose up and joined in fighting the Turks, then after the war we would be no more than friends and trading partners . . . that Arabs would control Arabic nationalism and Arabic destiny and all of Arabia. Imagine what will happen now, after all we have done for you, if I tell my brothers and the other leaders of other tribes that the British have been treacherous, and that this treachery has been going on behind our backs while they smile at us and shake our hands like equals.”
“Why don’t you?” asked Lawrence, his temper flaring. “Why don’t you tell them, and to hell with the British? It’s all so bloody disgusting and political and rotten. It’s not only you who’s been stabbed in the back, Faisal, but me. Allenby is courting me on the one hand, using us to protect his eastern flank while he fights from Gaza to Damascus, and on the other hand, he’s doing rancid deals with the French to prevent the Arabs from finally becoming a nation. Gertrude Bell is sending me screeds of advice on how to fight this war, and she’s probably in on the conspiracy.
“We have an historic opportunity here to make your people into a great nation, and now the bloody politicians and diplomats are wriggling around like snakes. Well, it’s all too bad. Why not tell your brother leaders that Great Britain is setting a trap for you?”
“What?” Faisal said softly, “And have my brothers sheath their swords and disappear back into the desert? Have them leave us and risk the British being defeated? But that would consign us once again to the domination of the Turks? And worse, to their merciless revenge, because they know that we sided with you.” the prince said quietly. “No, Lawrence. We are committed now to winning this war, so I do not think it appropriate to cause problems for you British. You see, we can’t afford to lose. And if we do help you win this war, then I wi
ll count on you to help us win the peace. Now that, my friend, will be a real challenge.”
There was a shout from a lookout. Both Lawrence and the prince glanced over to a hill, and saw a smudge of black smoke in the pristine sky.
~
Baghdad, 1918
Gertrude sat down in shock. She looked over the desk to Percy Cox, whose face was white with fury. Only her demeanor as a lady prevented her from screaming out her anger in a string of invectives at the hapless man who thought he’d be delivering a simple and welcome message.
It was Sir Percy who eventually broke the leaden atmosphere in the room, when he said, “How dare you? How dare you connive and scheme and then come in here so smugly and try to convince Miss Bell and me of this obscenity.”
A look of shock on the man’s face replaced the self-satisfied smile and air of importance with which he’d entered the office. Humphrey McHugh was secretary to Sir Samuel Wordsworth, Plenipotentiary of the British government. While the prime minister had given Sir Samuel the job of traveling to the capitals of France, Italy, Russia, Egypt, and India on behalf of his government in order to inform those who were deemed sufficiently important of the conditions of the Sykes-Picot Agreement, it had been left to the lowly Mr. McHugh to travel to Arabia and inform the Arab Office in Baghdad of the terms under which Arabia would be sliced up after the war.
As secretary to a plenipotentiary, he had expected to be received in accordance with the standing of his master, which is why he was so shocked at the reception he was getting from Sir Percy and Miss Bell to the news of the Agreement.
“I beg your pardon,” he said, his voice raised at the surprise of the vehemence.”
“Silence, you ridiculous little man. You heard what Sir Percy said,” Gertie hissed, having regained her tongue. “The idiots for whom you work, without consulting us as experts on the situation, have undone years of painstaking work, and have likely lost us the war.”
“Are you aware of who I am?” asked McHugh. “Are you aware I am secretary to Sir Samuel—”
“I don’t give a damn if you’re secretary to the king himself. What you’ve just told us is devastating,” shouted Sir Percy, banging his fist on his desk. “And you walk in here with a mellifluous smile all over your grovelling suburban face, expecting us to congratulate you, when you and those you represent have sold out British interests and will make us a laughingstock throughout the Arabic world. Miss Bell is absolutely correct. This obscene decision will likely cost us the war,” he fumed.
Mr. McHugh took the glass of water on Sir Percy’s desk and drank it. He began to perspire, and not from the heat of the day. “I’m not certain whether you properly understood. This agreement will assure Britain and France of—”
“It’ll assure us of nothing,” shouted Sir Percy, shaking his fist at the hapless bureaucrat. Gertrude, surprised, had never seen him in such anger. “Nothing except increasing our chances of the Arabs walking out on us, putting an end to the revolt, and resulting in us losing the Middle East. And if that doesn’t happen, it’ll assure us of losing any influence we might have had over this area, the loss of untold British soldiers who’ll be shot by Arabs once this news gets out, and quite likely the loss of potential oil revenues, the passage to India, and God knows what else. This is a bloody disaster,” Sir Percy said, his voice rising an octave.
“We’ve all been deceived by this. What’s going to become of Mesopotamia? I’ve been working under the impression that this place would be annexed under the protection of the British government in India, and that ibn Sa’ud would be made king. I’ve virtually promised him that, with the full knowledge of the government and the cabinet. We were at a stand-off with our people in the Arab Bureau in Cairo who want to make Sharif Hussein king, and now you tell me that Baghdad will be under some minor local ruler, Mosul in the north will go to the French, and Great Britain will control Basrah. I demand an explanation. This is a disaster . . . a bloody disaster . . .” He was suddenly lost for words.
Recovering his composure, McHugh said, “Well, Sir Percy, you’re the only one who thinks it’s a disaster. Everybody else is very pleased with the way things will be in the future—”
“Be silent, you pompous nonentity,” said Gertrude. McHugh stopped speaking. “You know nothing of the situation here. Sir Percy isn’t the only one who understands what a disaster this Sykes-Picot thing will become. I think so too,” said Gertrude, her voice beginning to break with emotion. “And in case you think your lords and masters in England know more than we do, be quiet and listen, because it’s more than likely that Sir Percy’s is the only opinion which matters. Who else thinks this is a good idea, Mr. McHugh? The entire British Cabinet? The French and the Russians? Has anybody thought to ask the Arabs what they think of it? We’ve spent years persuading the Arabs they’ll be better off with us as friends and associates under our protection. Finally, they’re beginning to come around to the idea. The Arab Revolt is just taking off, and now you and Mark Sykes dump this in our laps, without even bothering to ask the people on the ground. Thanks to you, my voice will have no credibility any longer with the Arab leadership. I’ll be a laughingstock.”
She stood, her eyes beginning to brim with tears, and shouted, “It’s all too much. It’s destroyed all my work over the past years. Really, it’s just not fair.” She ran out of the room.
~
He found her a half an hour later. She was sitting on a deckchair on the flat roof of the Baghdad headquarters.
Silently, he pulled another deckchair over to where she was sitting, and together they silently surveyed the sun setting over the western desert. Softly, she said, “You know Percy, I was last in Baghdad in 1914. I came here as an utter failure. Oh, to the outside world, I was a champion, a heroine, but in my own mind I was a dismal failure. I was totally spent from my journeys around Arabia and was looking forward to returning to England. But how to tell my father and mother and my friends that I’d failed to find any archaeological sites of any value, or that I’d failed totally in my proposed meeting with ibn Sa’ud, or that I’d been imprisoned and nearly died at the hands of ibn Rashid? And then I was called in by the foreign secretary himself to assist the Empire in her war with the Turks, and suddenly I had a way to redeem my own standing in my own eyes.
“But it’s not just me, Percy. Look what we’ve achieved, my dear. Between us, we’ve helped turn the Arabs around and raised the revolt, we’ve almost beaten the Turks out of Arabia, and now we’ve entered Baghdad as conquerors and we’re on the cusp of retaking Damascus. After that, the Turks will really have to pull up stumps and return home to Constantinople. And just when we’re looking at the laurels of victory, the jaws of defeat suddenly open up and threaten to snap our legs off.”
He nodded, and began to say something, but Gertrude was in a reflexive mood, and he sensed she just wanted to talk. “I love this city, Percy. Twelve hundred years ago, Harun al Rashid, the fifth Abbasid Caliph, along with scholars in his court, wrote of Scheherazade, and the way in which her husband the king had threatened to kill her after her wedding, yet she kept herself alive by amusing him for a thousand and one nights with her stories about Aladdin and Ali Baba and his forty thieves.
“Under the Abbasids this was the largest and richest city in the world with more than a million people of every religion and every nationality flocking here to learn and to teach and to grow rich. A thousand years ago, Percy, the bookshops and literary coffeehouses did a roaring trade at a time when almost no Englishman could read or write. The geniuses of ancient Greece were translated and mathematics and astronomy reached unimaginable heights. Were it not for the Arabs and the Jews in this very city, we in the West would know nothing of Homer and Socrates, of Plato and Aristotle.”
She turned to him, her eyes again brimming with tears. “We could have been an honorable part of this, Percy. Another worthy chapter in its history. Yet all the while, all the time we’ve been honest and upright in our dealings, Mark bloody Sy
kes and this bloody damn Frenchman have been making fools of us. They’ve undone all our work, my dear. We can pack our bags and go home for all the good we’re going to be able to do from now on.”
She looked across at him. She held him in such high regard. What would he do now? Would he resign and end his distinguished career? Or would he be a true servant of the British Crown and soldier on, regardless of the stupidity of his political masters?
Percy remained silent for what seemed an eternity, and then took out a letter, which he handed to her. It was addressed to him as Senior Political Officer, the most important man in all of Mesopotamia, alongside of the Chief Military Commanding Officer.
She opened the envelope and read the letter. It was from the foreign secretary. It told Sir Percy that because of her outstanding and meritorious dispatches and the exemplary work she had done in identifying Arabs who could become loyal to the British cause, and because of her singular skills in uniting all the disparate Arab tribes into one fighting nation on behalf of Great Britain, Gertrude Bell was to be elevated to the rank of Oriental Secretary, chief intelligence expert and adviser on Arab affairs to the British Government, effective immediately.
“You’re the most senior woman political official in the entire British Empire, my dear, the most important woman ever to work as a diplomat for the crown” said Sir Percy. “Isn’t it unbelievably ironic, Gertie, that the ridiculous little man downstairs brought us this wonderful news glorifying your lifetime’s achievements, along with the devastating information that all our work has been ruined. Well, I suppose that’s life.”
He reached over extending his hand, and formally congratulated her. “This is a very important day for you, Gertrude. To become the top woman British civil servant, the most senior lady in the whole of Great Britain in a political role, is a true reflection of your capabilities. This will be recorded in the annals of both the House of Commons and the Lords. And God knows you deserve it.”
