Frank Forester: A Story of the Dardanelles

by Herbert Strang

  CHAPTER XI

  DANGER

  The return to consciousness was a painful experience. Frank's headached violently; his nostrils stung with dust and smoke and foul gas;his ears rang with strange noises; every part of him seemed bruised.For some time he lay simply bewildered, trying to recall how he came tobe on the floor, half smothered with dust and fragments of wood andstone. Two splintered beams lay criss-cross just above him: if they hadnot fallen one upon the other they must certainly have crushed the lifeout of him.

  A loud bang which set the place quivering and the dust dancing about himrecalled the explosion he had heard at the moment of falling. Hestirred, shook off the litter half burying him, and stretched his limbs.To his joy they were sound. He took out his handkerchief and wiped thedirt from his face. It was streaked with blood.

  He looked around him. The house was a mere mass of wreckage. Fragmentsof furniture were embedded in extraordinary positions among heaps ofstone. The roof was gone, the walls had fallen in and out, forming arampart in which here and there were chinks through which light came.He was on the level of the street.

  Shaken, bruised, half-deafened, he lay staring up at the open sky. Whatwas to be done? The bombardment had apparently ceased. He looked athis watch: it had stopped. Where was Benidin? Was the promise to stayin the house any longer binding? But he felt disinclined to move: theshock had left him listless and devoid of energy. It would be no goodadventuring until he had recovered something of his strength.

  Presently he heard the hum of voices outside. People were apparentlymoving about now that the havoc-working shells had ceased to fall. Hedistinguished a question, evidently from a stranger to the town.

  "Whose house is this?"

  "Benidin's."

  "A dog of an Armenian?"

  "Even so."

  There was a laugh.

  "Is he inside?"

  "Who knows? If he is buried in the ruins, so much the better."

  "A rich man? All these Armenian dogs are rich. Let us see what we canfind."

  Frank heard scuffling footsteps approaching, and was tempted to call forhelp. But the recollection that he was dressed as an Armenian checkedthe impulse. The men outside began to poke at the rubbish; they woulddiscover him; he must try to evade them. At this moment there wasanother roar and crash close by, and the group of would-be lootersscattered with shrill cries. Frank once more wiped from his face thedust which the concussion had showered upon him. A slight movement ofone of the cross-beams hinted that his position was still dangerous.They protected him, indeed, from falling rubbish; but another shell,even if it spared the house, might disturb them, and cause them tosettle down and crush him.

  "I must get out of this," he thought. "It must be getting on towardsevening, and Kopri will be back."

  Wriggling out of his narrow prison, he climbed up one of the slantingbeams, wrenched away some shattered woodwork, and scrambled over thejagged heaps of masonry until he reached a gap in the ruins overlookingthe street. Through this he clambered, and stood amid the wreckageoutside. The neighbourhood was deserted.

  The bombardment had now apparently ceased, though guns could still beheard intermittently from the south. The inhabitants were beginning toreappear. Dusk was falling. Far down the hill Frank saw troops engagedin extinguishing a fire.

  He was at a loss what to do. There was no sign of Benidin. Hisneighbours would soon be returning to their houses, and then Frank mustbe discovered. Yet discovery was equally certain if he made his way tothe harbour, and in spite of the rehearsal in Erzerum, he felt in nocondition to parry successfully the questions of some inquisitiveofficer who would certainly intercept him before he reached the quay.On the whole it seemed better to hang about the ruins until Benidinreturned. If he did not return, Kopri would come as soon as his vesselwas moored.

  Frank went round to the rear of the house, where he was least likely tobe seen and questioned by the returning owners of the adjacentdwellings. As he contemplated the ruins, he marvelled at his goodfortune in escaping so lightly. No one who knew that a human being wasin the house at the time of the explosion would suppose that he had notmet his death or at least suffered hideous mutilation.

  While he was standing thus, a figure came round the corner of the ruins.Though it was growing dark, Frank recognised the uniform of a Kurdishofficer. His first impulse was to slip away and avoid a meeting; but herealised instantly that any sudden movement of departure might seemsuspicious. Keeping his back to the newcomer, he continued to examinethe wreckage, at the same time edging slowly away.

  The Kurd stopped, and appeared to be interested in the scene. He cameup to Frank.

  "Whose house was this?" he asked.

  "The house of one Benidin, a merchant of the town," Frank replied,humbly, in the reedy falsetto learnt from Joseph.

  "Was he within when the shell fell?"

  "No, effendim."

  "You are his servant?"

  "Not so, but a humble visitor."

  "Then make haste and search that rubbish heap. Before the merchantreturns, it may be that you will find for me some few precious things.Make haste, I say, before it grows too dark."

  Frank could not refuse compliance. The Kurd was bristling with weapons,which he would not hesitate for a moment to use on a supposed Armenian.But Frank, while he stooped and made a show of turning over the rubbish,was determined not to find anything of value. His object must be towaste time in the hope of darkness putting an end to the search.

  The Kurd walked up and down, a few paces in each direction, watchingalternately Frank and the vicinity. Every now and then he halted for afew seconds within a few feet of Frank, who pretended to be diligentlysorting over the confused heaps in the light of the sunset glow. Theprolongation of one of these pauses made Frank uncomfortable. The Kurd,to whom his back had been turned, had moved to a spot where he could seehis side face, and Frank was uneasily conscious of being watched withpeculiar intentness. He was relieved when the officer moved away again,but next moment was filled with anxiety when he noticed that the Kurdwas edging round so as to look at him from the front.

  "Ahi! You find nothing? Try in this place," said the Kurd.

  Frank went forward, stooping, and keeping his head downbent. He waspulling aside a broken piece of furniture when, with a suddenness thatstartled him, the officer demanded:

  "Who are you?"

  "I am Reuben Donessa, son of Aaron Donessa of the Five Wells, effendim,"he said.

  The sentence came from his lips pat enough, but there was a strangevariation of tone between the first words and the last. In the firstmoment of surprise, Frank had spoken in his natural voice; but instantlyremembering Kopri's instruction, he raised its pitch to a passableimitation of Joseph's voice, hoping that the Kurd had not perceived thechange.

  "Ahi! And what is your town?" the Kurd asked.

  "Bashkala, effendim."

  "Mashallah! This is a marvel, surely. Are there Five Wells in Bashkala,and does one Aaron Donessa dwell there? Stand upright, dog, so that Imay behold you."

  Frank realised that the game was up. For the first time he lookedstraight at the Kurd's face, and recognised with a shock that he wasMirza Aga's nephew, Abdi the Liar, whom he had met on that one occasionin the journey over the hills. It was clear that Abdi had penetratedhis disguise. There was a look of malicious glee on the man's face.

  "Mashallah! I have found you, dog of an Englishman," cried the Kurd.

  His hand was moving towards one of the pistols in his belt. Frank hadonly the fraction of a second in which to take action. He shot out hisright fist, struck the Kurd on the point of the jaw, and hurled himbackward into the ruins.

  When Abdi regained his senses it was dark, and the so-called ReubenDonessa had disappeared. And a revolver was missing from Abdi's belt.