by John Harris
Pentecost gave a slow, quiet smile. ‘Your father was hereditary ruler of the Hejri, Aziz,’ he pointed out gravely.
Aziz stared at him, then he grinned. ‘Thou art no fool, Bin T’Khass, for all thy youth. That is so. But I am strong enough to lead them in the way they wish.’
‘When you are old, will you not make your son ruler of the Hejri?’
Like Beebe, Aziz felt vaguely that his words were being chosen for him. ‘I shall make him ruler of the Hejri,’ he said sharply. ‘It is up to him to remain ruler.’
‘Thawab abu Tegeiga might think differently.’
Aziz’s smile faded. ‘Thawab abu Tegeiga always thinks differently,’ he growled. ‘Thawab abu Tegeiga is the cheating son of a camel. He and his young men drive me. They insist we take back what is our own. They know there is nothing can stop them if they so decide.’
‘Only me, Aziz,’ Pentecost said quietly.
Aziz eyed him warily. ‘Thou art a great warrior, Bin T’Khass, but even thou art not that great.’
‘Thawab might be surprised.’
Aziz paused again. Clearly the old man was troubled by the news that had been brought to him.
‘Thou hast heard nothing of this decision to hold Hahdhdhah?’ he asked more calmly, sincerely eager to be reassured.
‘Nothing,’ Pentecost said.
‘That is good.’ Aziz looked earnestly at him. ‘Could not thy duty allow thee to leave?’
‘My duty is to stay here until five noons from now. My duty is to hold Hahdhdhah until then against the Hejri, and if necessary against the whole Khusar country, against Thawab, even against thee, Aziz.’
Aziz looked uncomfortable. ‘Toweida is my people’s birth-right,’ he said sullenly.
‘Toweida will be yours five noons hence.’ As he spoke, Pentecost watched the old man, guessing at the harsh words that had been spoken over the coffee in Addowara village and the tents in the Urbidas.
‘I understand your problems, Aziz,’ he went on and the old man gave him a twisted smile.
‘I am glad this new friendship we have found, Bin T’Khass, is not to cease. I do not wish to part as friends to become enemies.’
‘Nor I.’
The old man’s heart jumped. Pentecost reminded him uncomfortably of his dead son. ‘I shall always think kindly of thee, Bin T’Khass,’ he said impulsively. ‘Whatever happens.’
‘And I of thee, Aziz.’
Aziz sighed. ‘If your Ministers do not give us Toweida, I fear there will be much bloodshed.’
Pentecost shrugged. ‘So be it.’
Aziz stared down at the young man in front of him. ‘It is the will of Allah,’ he said slowly. ‘Thou art an honourable man, Bin T’Khass. Aziz is well aware of this. One cannot talk with men without becoming aware of these things.’
Pentecost bowed slightly.
Aziz was silent for a moment. His face was working but his anger had dissipated. ‘If there is treachery, Bin T’Khass,’ he said at last, ‘I must fight. Even against thee.’
‘I understand all this.’
‘If it comes to war, it will not be possible to hold back my young men.’
‘This I understand also.’
Aziz stared at Pentecost from the saddle, his mouth twisted.
‘Allah protect thee, whatever comes.’
‘God be with thee, too, Aziz.’
For a moment longer, Aziz gazed at Pentecost. Then the horse whirled as he clapped his spurs against its haunches; and as he reached the line of horsemen, its ends curled inwards like the horns of a bull, and they swept behind him as he headed for the hills.
For a long time, Pentecost stared after them, blinking at the dust they had stirred up which was blowing into his face. Then he turned round and slowly headed back towards the fortress.
7
‘…All grain, rice and foodstuffs beyond what will be needed for the journey to be left. Weapons to be removed, together with all mechanical, electrical and radio equipment, and all ammunition and explosives. Timber, corrugated iron, iron piping, rush mats, plastic sheets may be left…’
‘Toilet paper?’ Lack asked sarcastically.
Pentecost looked up. ‘That, too,’ he said, frozen-faced.
While they talked, Beebe was scanning his instructions. ‘The first party,’ he read, ‘will leave at 1100 hours under Captain Lack. It will consist of half the lorries, each manned by a driver and two guards, the cooking equipment and one of the armoured cars. The lorries will contain the women and children and civilian workers, and include the vehicle of Mr Beebe. They will carry half the mortars and machine guns, both light and heavy, and half the ammunition for all weapons. The Civil Guard will march behind. Bugler Owdi will accompany this party.’
He looked up at Pentecost sitting at the other side of the desk, small, smooth-faced, self-assured – a spruce little figure who looked as though he ought to have been editor of a woman’s magazine rather than a soldier.
Beebe’s eyes fell again to the sheets he held in his hand. ‘The second group, under Captain Minto,’ he read, ‘will leave at 1130 hours and will consist of one lorry, 150 men of the Toweida Levies, and 40 men of the Dharwa Scouts. They will carry their weapons, forty rounds of ammunition and rations for three days. The last group under the Commanding Officer will leave at 1200 hours. This group will consist of the remaining Toweidas and the remaining Scouts, marching in a formation to be decided later, the second armoured car and the rest of the lorries containing the remainder of the weapons and ammunition. Weapons and ammunition in all groups will be stowed so as to be easily accessible. A radio watch and a sharp look-out will be kept at all times. In case of trouble, a red Very light will be fired. If a Very light is seen, groups will close up on it and wireless communication will be opened immediately.’
Beebe looked across at Pentecost who was waiting patiently for him to finish reading, his elbows on the desk, his hands together in the form of a steeple, his finger tips neatly under his chin. He looked pleased with himself.
Beebe gave him a puzzled look. The orders he’d drafted were sound enough and seemed professional even to Beebe. Pentecost had prepared for all emergencies and had worked out a formation that would enable the first group to be in Hahdhdhah village before the last group left the fort. That way, Beebe realised, if Aziz decided to be difficult, they could hold a passage through the village until the last party arrived. Yet if there were shooting or treachery, they would still have one foot in the fort and could call back the lot if necessary.
Lack and Minto had finished reading now. ‘Bit cautious, aren’t you, Billy?’ Lack asked.
‘You never know,’ Pentecost said calmly.
‘But, hell, all that about splitting up the weapons and having everything ready. Thought you and Aziz were like that.’ Lack held up two fingers.
‘Just precautions, actually,’ Pentecost said mildly. ‘We’ll be meeting Wintle at the other end of the pass.’
‘Think the Civil Guards ought to be in the first group?’ Lack asked. To Beebe he seemed to be trying to show off his knowledge and experience.
Pentecost didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘They can keep an eye on the women. The women are used to them. They’re a bit scared of ’em, too,’ he added. ‘And that’s no bad thing.’
Beebe thought of the forty or fifty scruffy-looking men in shreds of khaki uniform assembled in the courtyard. They had been arriving for some time now and, despite their general air of slovenliness, he had to admit they looked tough customers. They were reputed to dislike the Hejri as much as the Hejri disliked them.
As they finished speaking, Beebe stepped forward. ‘I can’t have my equipment in the first group,’ he said abruptly, ‘I shan’t have time.
Pentecost looked up. ‘Couldn’t you hurry, Mr Beebe?’ His voice sounded sad and reproachful, and Beebe suspected he was being manoeuvred again.
‘I guess not,’ he said firmly. ‘I’m dealing with explosives and precision stuff.’
‘Surely you could pack it beforehand?’
Beebe stared back at Pentecost, determined to remain his own man and take orders from no one.
‘Mine’s last-minute stuff,’ he said. ‘I need all the time I can get. Even an hour.’
Pentecost stared at him and Beebe had an uncomfortable feeling that he could see through the excuse to the meanness of spirit that had prompted it. ‘Very well,’ he said, not arguing. ‘I’ll arrange for your vehicle to go with my group.’
Lack spoke. ‘Couldn’t we leave at first light?’ he asked.
‘My orders say midday.’
‘What’s an hour or two when we’re giving the place up?’
Pentecost surveyed Lack expressionlessly. He was still not convinced that they were giving the place up. Deep down in his mind, he suspected that somewhere something had gone wrong and he was sufficiently a professional soldier not to transgress against instructions in case circumstances arose whereby they were later flung in his face.
‘I bet Tom Jeffreys at Zereibat won’t wait till midday,’ Lack said. ‘And Howard at Umrah won’t be out on a limb.’
‘We’re rather more out on a limb than either of them,’ Pentecost pointed out quietly.
‘But hell, Billy–!’
Pentecost sighed. It was not his duty to query orders, even if he suspected them. It was his duty to do as he was told. Exactly as he was told. Whatever he might think in private.
‘Midday,’ he said firmly.
Five
1
It was a pity that General Cozzens’ cocktail party coincided with the arrival of orders – both for him and the frontier. He had been expecting them for some time, half-hoping they wouldn’t be what he feared and wishing to God that the Sultan would finally surface and let everybody know what he intended.
But the Sultan had wavered on and on until the last moment, congenitally unable to commit himself to something which might be politically dangerous, economically disastrous and bad for prestige, and had left it so late his intentions had become well-nigh impossible to carry out. When the orders finally arrived Cozzens didn’t feel like holding a party at all.
Then, however, he remembered Charlotte Pentecost. If nothing else, he decided, it would give him the opportunity to talk to her in a way that would be less alarming than if he made a special call on her or summoned her to see him. And, in all honesty, he felt he could hardly send one of his aides with a duty like that.
‘We’ll go ahead with it,’ he told his wife. ‘But we’ll keep it simple.’
His wife noticed that he looked tired but she knew he wouldn’t want to be troubled by any concern for his welfare from her. They had been married a long time now and were beginning to look forward – most of the time unspeakingly because they were both a little afraid of it – to a retirement in which they would probably both be bored to tears.
‘Right-ho!’ she said. She was not a pretty woman and never had been but, like Charlotte Pentecost, she was a soldier’s daughter and many years before she and Cozzens had been swept away by the warmth and the moon and the fact that there had been more men than women in one of the British Red Sea bases. When they had wakened up to reality, Cozzens had found himself with a wife who was lumpish and loud-voiced, and she had found herself married to a man who was not at all the romantic figure she’d expected.
She knew they were regarded as a funny couple and they were both well aware of the nicknames that had been given to them by the young officers of Cozzens’ staff. But, rather to their surprise, they had both found that in each other they had got a better bargain than they’d ever expected. And now, Cozzens spent most of his time silently worrying that some fool would throw a bomb through their drawing-room window when she was arranging the flowers, while she spent her time in a mute fear that one morning when he started his car someone might have planted a plastic charge behind the facia board.
2
The Minister from London was big, fleshy and pink, as though he took great care with his health but rarely obtained any exercise, and at that moment he seemed overworked to the point of having a driven look in his eyes. Watching him with his enigmatic dark glance, Rasaul managed to feel sympathy for him. The Khaliti Ministers wore the same look, after days – weeks now – of trying to persuade the Sultan to make his decision.
The Minister was dressed for the part, in evening dress with the red ribbon of an order across his shirt front and a small cluster on his lapel of miniature medals won between 1939 and 1945. He looked like a Minister, Rasaul had to admit – a Minister of the arrogant northern country which still hadn’t entirely grown out of the humbugging ways it had developed when it had had its empire. Cozzens, too, was playing the part. He was dressed in the blue bum-freezer jacket of a hussar regiment, with a gold-braided waistcoat and skin-tight overalls, and looked exactly what he was – an elderly cavalry officer trying to put on a show.
It didn’t convince Rasaul much. Behind the soldier’s expressionless visage he saw irritation, anger and bitterness, and he knew from reports that Cozzens had put on a spectacular display of fury when he had received his instructions. It had been followed by a flurry of orders that had placed about the streets the groups of soldiers who had stopped him three times on his way that evening, stern-faced young Britishers a little puzzled by the volte face of the Khaliti Government and a little nervous about what it meant to them in terms of life and death.
‘I take it your orders have all been issued,’ the man from Westminster was saying.
‘Indeed they have,’ Cozzens replied with a briskness he didn’t feel. ‘The Sultan’s instructions are being transmitted to Dhafran at this moment, to be passed on to Umrah, Afarja and Hahdhdhah.’ His eyes flickered as he stopped speaking. And just in time, too, he thought sourly. One more day and they’d have been too late.
‘Since the Sultan has made his decision,’ the Minister went on, ‘it’s up to us all to see that his requests are carried out. His subsidies will be re-negotiated, of course, with the Shukri, the Jezowi, the Muleimat and the Khadari peoples guarding the Dharwa passes, and we’ll try also to arrange something with the Hejri and the Deleimi.’
Cozzens just hoped to God that the Shukri and the Jezowi and the Muleimat and the Khadari would be willing to accept renegotiated subsidies. He hadn’t for a moment the slightest doubt that the Hejri and the Deleimi would reject out of hand any offer that was made, but they needed the passes to make the border safe. If the passes through the Dharwa Mountains were closed the whole of the Toweida Plain was in jeopardy.
His face expressionless, he listened to the chatter with hatred in his heart for Sultan Tafas. Plans had been brought for new married quarters for Khaswe – from estates to blocks of flats – all with air conditioning, refrigerators, schools, churches, shops, cinemas, beach clubs, bars, all for the men who were to hold Khalit for the Sultan – in the firm belief that the employment they would bring to Khaswe would endear the British to the Khaliti people. And Whitehall-itis had already got rid of the pamphlets with the basic Khalit-Arabic phrases for ‘Get lost!’ and ‘Hands up!’ and replaced them with new ones which included ‘Good morning’ and ‘How are you?’ For once they were being asked to stay and the British Government was trying to look wanted.
The Minister was moving away now and Cozzens reached for another drink.
‘I hope the Minister made everything clear?’ he said to Rasaul.
The Khaliti made a face. ‘Only too clear. I just hope it won’t be as bad as I expect and that you have enough troops.’
Cozzens felt embarrassed. ‘I expect my government’s drumming up more men,’ he said. ‘But it’s not easy these days with commitments elsewhere. They can’t possibly arrive before the month’s out.’
‘What about Hahdhdhah then?’ Rasaul asked.
Cozzens turned and glanced uneasily about him for Charlotte Pentecost. She was talking to his wife who had had instructions to keep her busy until Cozzens was ready to talk to her.
‘I can do nothing for Hahdhdhah,’ he said stiffly.
As Rasaul moved away, Cozzens lit a cigarette to collect his thoughts, brushed off an American businessman who was anxious for a résumé of the situation, and the wife of one of his colonels who was eager to be pleasant to him for her husband’s sake, and crossed to Charlotte Pentecost. His wife saw him coming and rose.
As she moved off, her face a mask of cheerfulness she didn’t feel, her husband dropped on to the settee in the seat she had just vacated. She saw him pat Charlotte Pentecost’s hand and offer her a cigarette, and she sighed, wondering what awful lies he was going to have to tell her and how good he was going to make them sound. He had never been very skilful at telling untruths, she knew.
Cozzens also knew how bad he was at gilding the lily and as he lit Charlotte Pentecost’s cigarette he was wondering how he could tell her the truth and still give her the impression that her husband was in no danger when he was.
‘Never very good at these affairs,’ he said in an intimate, friendly voice as he stuffed away his lighter. ‘Hate small talk. How’s your father, Charley?’
‘Finding the New Forest a little dull,’ Charlotte Pentecost said. ‘He was never a man to take easily to having nothing to do. He’s thrown himself into good works, but I think he’s bored stiff by the elderly ladies and the vicars who make up the committees he works on.’
‘Got that coming to me before long,’ Cozzens said. ‘Not looking forward to it very much. Mother?’
‘Much the same.’
Charley had heard about her mother and Cozzens, but she was giving nothing away.
‘H’m! How’s Billy?’
‘The usual. He never seems very downhearted in his letters.’
‘Remarkable chap,’ Cozzens said enthusiastically. ‘Knew his father, too. Not so professional as Billy.’
Charley crushed out her cigarette and faced Cozzens squarely. For some time she had been wanting to know how long her husband was to be in Hahdhdhah and, now, with Cozzens indulging in euphoric nostalgia, seemed as good a time as any to find out.
