Bell of the Desert

by Alan Gold

  “Will you and Zeid go to London?” asked Nuri

  Faisal nodded. “Yes, I will try to persuade the British government the Arabic people need its support, despite the League. Britain has let me down badly, but I can’t see it abrogating its responsibilities in the region. There’s just too much wealth for it to plunder, and without Britain, Arabia will descend into chaos and anarchy.”

  Zeid shook his head in disgust. “And where’s your Lawrence of Arabia now, when you need him most? Performing like a puppet in New York.”

  The young man turned and walked out of the Throne Room. King Faisal looked at the assembly, not knowing what to say, when his defence minister, General Yusuf al-Azmah stepped forward. Only in his mid-thirties, he was one of the younger men who advised Faisal.

  “Highness,” he said, his voice strong and confident, “We cannot defeat the French, and you are right to go to London to seek British support; but as your Minister, I cannot allow General Gouraud simply to walk into Damascus and take what is ours, what we have fought for so valiantly. Neither history, nor our Arab brethren, will forgive us. So I will lead a force of men from Damascus, even if it means our death, and fight them. My commanders have been working on a plan to halt the invasion of the French at Maysalun Pass, a day’s march to the West. There, Sire, we will fight and die for Syria’s honor.”

  King Faisal felt tears welling up in his eyes. Just as he had fought the Turks beside Colonel Lawrence, every fibre of his body told him he should join his young minister in this glorious battle. But he knew that as a king, he had to go to Britain and use his diplomatic skills for the greater glory. He looked at the young man, and nodded slowly.

  SEVENTEEN

  Baghdad, October 1920

  Gertrude ensured her pearls were not crossed, but arrayed in neat rows cascading down her bosom. She spent a lot of time changing her hats and shoes to ensure a perfect look, nearly driving her maid to distraction. Even the cook was instructed to prepare three lunches because the first two had gone cold as Gertrude changed and then re-changed her outfit until she was perfectly dressed for the occasion.

  It was the end of her nightmare. Yes, it had only lasted a relatively short time, but it was without question the worst time of her life. And now it was all over. Sir Percy Cox had been ordered to leave Persia, and sort out the problems which had grown so horribly during the administration of the hideous little Arnold Wilson. The awful, execrable, nasty, mean-spirited, officious, rotten little man had gone. He was no longer in Iraq. He was out, ousted, removed, sent packing. Gone! And her dear, dear Sir Percy was returning. It was like a dream come true.

  Even when Wilson told her of his departure, she hadn’t quite taken in the fact that it was Sir Percy who would be returning to take charge. She’d been so stunned by his appearance in her office on the evening before his departure she could barely say a word. Indeed, there had been virtually no conversation between them in weeks, apart from curt notes and overheard snide and superficial comments in the corridors.

  “I fear, Miss Bell, that I leave Mesopotamia as a failure. This damnable insurrection has cost Great Britain £50 million and many hundreds of British citizens have lost their lives . . .”

  “Not to mention ten thousand Arab lives,” she said curtly.

  “Indeed,” he replied. “But I don’t feel the failure is all mine. This mandate which the government insisted upon, the planting of this idea the Arabs could govern themselves, is what has led to the uprising and caused so much pain and suffering. Under the Turks, the Arabs were quiescent, as they would have been under British rule had we not held out the promise of nationalism.

  “But that’s another argument for another day. I’ve come to say goodbye, and to say how much I regret not having formed a better working relationship with you. Sir Percy told me when I took this position you were a woman of great intellect and knowledge. Had we not taken opposite sides on this issue, I’m sure we could have worked well together.”

  He shook her hand formally. She looked him in the eye. It was a strange moment, she a middle-aged lady, he a straight-laced imperialist, rigid and pompous. Yet they were of the same coin. “I too, regret our relationship, Captain Wilson. And I too see my last year here as a failure. Indeed, I’m feeling more deeply discouraged about the future of Mesopotamia than at any time in the past. I regret acutely that we couldn’t have done a better job, between ourselves and with this country. But I wish you success in whatever your career holds in store for you.”

  She prayed it would be the last time in her life she’d have to talk to him, but life often took unusual turns and she no longer tried to guess what would happen when matters were outside of her control. A man like Wilson would probably pop up somewhere unexpected. And she’d vowed whatever happened in the future, she would never ever work for or with him again. She would rather retire to obscurity and write her books, than suffer the isolation, the humiliation, which his rule had caused her. She felt spent, as though there was nothing left inside her. And she continued to feel so until she was told the man replacing him was her dear friend Percy. Suddenly the light had been rekindled in her life and she had purpose, direction and hope.

  And now she was rushing out of the house to the central train station of Iraq in anticipation of the arrival of the man she adored, admired, and revered. Percy Cox was a figure of respect and popularity with the Arabs. If anybody could calm the situation in the country, it was he. She had finally selected a new royal blue silk dress which her mother had sent out from Harrods, her hair was tied into a topknot bun which was surreptitiously hidden beneath her hat, and she chose her coat more for its fashion than for the warmth it would provide from the cool afternoon winds of the late autumn.

  When Gertrude arrived at the railway station the band of the Royal Warwickshire Fusiliers, recently arrived from Persia, had already assembled and were tuning their instruments in anticipation of the arrival of Sir Percy and Lady Cox. Other dignitaries were also beginning to step out of their carriages to be greeted by the Station Master and his staff. She noted Sayid Talib and other members of the Constitutional Assembly, Anwar Ibrahim, the mayor, Sir Edgar Bonham Carter, Iraq’s judicial officer, as well as leaders of the Shi’ite, Sunni, Kurdish, Christian, and Jewish communities. Junior members of the political and military staff were also present, as was General Sir Aylmer Haldane, still smarting from the dressing down he’d received from Winston Churchill, the newly appointed colonial secretary, who’d ordered his immediate return from his holidays. It was a reprimand which ensured Haldane would never rise above his present rank, and once his tour of duty was over, he would not be given this level of responsibility again.

  Gertrude anxiously looked northwards along the railway line to see if there was any tell-tale sign of smoke from a distant engine. But Sir Percy’s train wouldn’t arrive for another half an hour, and she was being girlish and silly, but it was because of the joy that now she would have his wise head and his gentlemanly demeanor around again to support her and her plans for the Middle East.

  She loved this area with all her heart and soul. Ever since she was a girl, she’d loved Arabia, but it wasn’t until the regime of Wilson, when so many of her hopes and ambitions for the nation had been dashed on the rocks of imperial arrogance, that she understood just how much she loved the desert and the people. Before him and the misery he’d brought, she’d always viewed herself as an archetypal English woman, a bit eccentric in the best traditions of the rich English, but English through and through. Now, having been in danger of being sacked and dismissed from the land, or having seriously considered resigning and retiring to a life of indolence in London, she realized she yearned to stay. If there was a metaphor for her life, then it was Arabia. Internally riven by struggles and strife for independence and recognition, externally oppressed by the imperialism and patriality of men, Arabia was more Gertrude than she had realized, until this moment. She’d been accused of being more Arab than English. She’d dismissed the barbs. But
as she waited for Percy Cox to return, it dawned on Gertrude that she was, indeed, Arabia.

  Under Wilson, her title of Oriental Secretary, the most senior person with regard to the entire Middle Eastern theater, had been an unutterable joke. Despite her being such a pre-eminent expert on the Arabic peoples, she was the very last person whom Wilson consulted on these matters. Percy had always called her into his office when he was the Mesopotamian high commissioner to sit beside him when some bigwig sought an audience. Then they’d talk for hours afterwards, and on the basis of their shared experiences, they’d jointly plot a future course. And now all that was to return. She beamed a smile.

  Suddenly the protocol officer, an officious man from the north of England, requested the official party at the train station to assemble on the dais. Junior members of staff, their wives, and lesser locals were assembled on the periphery of the station platform, which was rapidly filling up and in danger of becoming over-crowded. Everybody, it seemed, wanted to greet the return of Percy Cox, a man known throughout the length and breadth of Arabia by locals unable to pronounce his name, as Kokus.

  And then a distant whistle heralded the arrival of the Cox’s train, five minutes early. It appeared on the distant horizon as a line of smoke in the sky which grew and grew until her heart was nearly exploding with excitement. She wanted to cry out with joy at seeing Percy again, but bit her tongue to prevent herself from doing anything girlish. As the train pulled into the station with steam hissing from its boiler and black coal smoke belching out of the chimney, Gertrude could barely contain her enthusiasm.

  Being senior military officer and the Commander-in-Chief of British forces, General Haldane, wearing a dazzling white dress uniform and plumed helmet, stepped forward to give a crisp salute to the new high commissioner. Sir Percy stepped down, and the two men shook hands, Haldane introducing himself with pomp and ceremony. The band immediately struck up God Save the King, and all the Englishmen and women stood very still.

  Gertrude couldn’t take her eyes off him. He was wearing a white uniform with gold epaulettes and trimming, and looked dignified, wise, and important. General Haldane accompanied the new high commissioner down the line of dignitaries, and Gertrude ensured her eyes were held rigidly to the front, and that she didn’t sneak a peek.

  Eventually, Sir Percy and General Haldane arrived at the place where she was standing. “And this is our only lady on the political staff, High Commissioner, Miss Gertrude Bell.”

  To his surprise, Sir Percy stepped forward, and said, “Hello Gertie.”

  She beamed a smile, curtsied, and as she arose, he threw his arms around her and kissed her on both cheeks.

  “You two know each other, do you?” asked Haldane.

  Deliberately raising his voice so all The Iraq would hear him, Percy said, “Miss Bell is the most brilliant, knowledgeable and important person in this entire area. Her advice is invaluable, her knowledge encyclopaedic, her intellect has led in large measure to the successes we’ve enjoyed today, and her courage to overturn the stupidity of some of the decisions which have been made here in recent times has avoided further disasters. Anybody who doesn’t realize that and fails to employ her precious knowledge and masterful advice is a complete idiot. Miss Bell will be my closest advisor and confidante in the fraught days ahead while the two of us attempt to repair the many egregious errors which have led to my being recalled to this theatre.”

  He continued meeting officials further down the line, accompanied by a very surprised and suddenly far less self-assured General Haldane. Gertrude could barely resist a smile. It was so very obvious Thomas Lawrence and Winston Churchill had been operating behind the scenes, with Percy as their willing and very enthusiastic conspirator.

  ~

  Lady Cox emerged when her husband’s introductions and formalities were completed. Protocol demanded she remain on board the train and the official ceremony proceed during the time when the new high commissioner was introduced to the indigenous guests. Only royal women were permitted to share the limelight with their spouses.

  As Lady Cox stepped down, looking remarkably fresh despite the 13-hour train journey, she spied Gertrude, smiled and waved at her. She mouthed the words, ‘I bought some lovely silk scarves for you in Teheran.’ Gertrude blew her a kiss.

  Sir Percy walked towards a raised platform, and cleared his throat to begin his address to the assembly. When the first words he uttered were in Arabic, the astonished crowd suddenly quietened and listened in rapt attention. He was known to be fluent in the language, but never used it on official occasions.

  “Much has happened since I was last in The Iraq,” he shouted above the wind.

  Suddenly, the entire indigenous community burst into applause. It was the first time the name Iraq had been mentioned officially in public, and for such a high official to honor the local people by espousing the name of their new country, in their own language, showed this was a new beginning. Indeed, everybody knew this was the first moment of the proper transition to Arab rule, and an end to the authoritarianism and barbarism of A.T. Wilson.

  He waited for the applause to die down, and continued, “I have come to Baghdad by order of His Majesty’s government to enter into counsel with the people of The Iraq for the purpose of setting up an Arab government under the supervision of Great Britain. From this moment henceforth, The Iraq will belong to the Arabic people, and will be ruled by the Arabic people. The foreign secretary of Great Britain has instructed me to create stability in the Middle East, and to redeem the country from the misrule and anarchy which has cost so many lives, both English and Iraqi.

  “This will not be an easy task. The road forward is strewn with the bodies of loved ones and it is natural for people of both sides to want to take revenge for their losses. But if we are to accomplish our task, we must learn to take a different path, a path which is not strewn with obstacles, but one which is to the benefit of both of our peoples.

  “We British have come to realize The Iraq is incontrovertibly the land, nation, and aspiration of the Iraqi people—all people—Sunni and Shi’ite and Kurd and nomad and city dweller and Christian and Jew alike. The British presence is necessary if we are not to see The Iraq devolve into bloodshed and anarchy. We will be here to support a legitimate government and to work in partnership and cooperation with that government in establishing the framework for self-rule.

  “When our work is done, and The Iraq is functioning as a modern nation whose citizens enjoy representation and all the rights which the citizens of other democratic nations enjoy, then we will depart as honored friends and partners in this cause. Until that glorious day, I ask the people of The Iraq to cooperate with me in the establishment of settled conditions so I can proceed immediately with the task in hand.”

  He didn’t get a chance to thank everyone, because the applause and shouting and whistling and cheering overwhelmed him. Only certain of the British political officers stared at the ground, wondering how long they’d survive until Cox’s broom swept them out of the desert.

  ~

  She hadn’t experienced a feeling of déjà vu like this before. It was as though the nightmare of Wilson’s rule had never happened, as though the insults and abuse and hatred she’d suffered, the distancing from the other staff, the isolation in her office and being left alone to guess at what was going in the political office, simply hadn’t happened.

  Now she was seated in the dining hall of the residency, and her life felt as though it was all beginning again. Except for entertaining the British and Europeans who were in Baghdad, Captain Wilson hadn’t had a single Arabic notable in this room since he had become high commissioner.

  Now the lights of the room were blazing, a military string quartet was playing, men and women were dressed in their evening finery, Arabic men were wearing their most formal clothes, and it was as though summer had come after a particularly cruel winter.

  Sir Percy had ordered his aide de camp to ensure that Gertrude sat next
to him at the top table. It was a singular honor he accorded her because he knew how much her position had suffered under that fool, Wilson. It was also his way of publicly telling Wilson’s cohorts and acolytes, and any in the Political Office who still wanted to follow his way of doing things, that there was a new man in the top job, and they had better be prepared to bend to his will, or they’d be out on their ears.

  After the formal welcomes, as the Windsor Soup was being served, Cox turned to Gertrude, and said softly, “How bad was it? I got these repeated suggestions from Wilson that he should send you back to England, which I ignored, of course. But was it bad here?”

  She decided not to spoil his dinner and downplayed her feelings. “No, not really. Just a bit lonely. I missed our friendship, our confabs, and the sharing of information. There was none of that with Captain Wilson.”

  “But did he behave badly towards you?”

  “Let’s just say you behaved better. But all that’s in the past, Percy, my dear. What’s important now is to make good those promises you made yesterday at the train station.”

  “And that’s precisely what I intend to do. From tomorrow, I want to begin gathering information on forming a provisional Arab government. I want it set up immediately . . .”

  She was stunned. “Tomorrow? But the uprising?”

  “This rebellion will come to an end once the Iraqis see Britain is working towards their self-government. I have the assurance of Lord Curzon he’ll back me to the hilt.” Gertrude smiled at the mention of Curzon’s name. “What’s funny?” he asked.

  “George Curzon. I still can’t get used to the fact he was made foreign secretary last year. I know him well, Percy. He gave me my gold medal at the Royal Geographical Society. You mark my words, he’ll be prime minister one day.”