The Lion at Sea (30 page)

‘When will that be?’

‘When the British and the French finally become aware that in the Arabs they have a potentially strong ally. And then, with our help, they will capture Damascus and Baghdad and threaten Constantinople. It is many generations since we passed under the yoke of the Turkish Empire and we have found it a slow death. Apart from a few clever ones like my father who learned to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds, our goods have been stripped from us and our spirits shrivelled by the Turkish military government.’

‘And now?’

She smiled. ‘There have always been rebellions – in Syria, Mesopotamia and Arabia – and we have always refused to give up our tongue for the Turkish. Instead, we have filled the Turkish language with our own Arabic words.’ She moved restlessly. ‘But we have lost our geographical sense and our racial and political memories, and Enver Pasha has forbidden Arab societies, scattered Arab deputies and proscribed Arab notables. He even suppressed Arab manifestations and the Arab language.’

She was silent for a while, and Kelly was conscious of the feeling that he was listening to a British intellectual. Only the awareness of her slight frame and the perfume she wore made him realise that she wasn’t one.

Her face was stern as she continued. ‘But a few stiffer spirits refused to be put down,’ she said. ‘Suppression filled them with an unhealthy violence and we became revolutionary. One day we shall ask the Allies to help us, to provide us with guns and aeroplanes and motor cars and some of their battalions. We need machine guns and explosives to disrupt the Turkish railways. Today’s work was only a trivial affair. Our explosives were stolen from the Turks and they’re hard to get. One day some man will arise who will understand us, some man the Arabs can follow, and then the Turkish Empire will fall because it is rotten already and they will not be able to hold on to it. In Syria this feeling for freedom is already strong. They have our men in their army but they dare not trust them.’

Kelly felt bewildered. ‘And do you think you’ll win?’ he asked.

‘In the end.’ The girl nodded, full of enthusiasm. ‘There has already been trouble in the Hejaz, and the Sherif of Mecca refused to join the Holy War that the Turks declared in an attempt to strengthen their hold on us. Last year, weak leaders in Mesopotamia, Damascus and Syria opposed a mutiny against the Turks, but the oppressed of our nation are calling out to us. The Sherif sent his son to get a report. A second son went to Medina to raise troops from the villagers and a third was sent to sound out the British about their attitude. But public opinion isn’t ready and too many think Germany will win the war.’

‘Never!’

‘The campaign in the Dardanelles has failed.’

‘There’ll be others.’

‘Like Mesopotamia? There were fifteen thousand men shut up in Kut. Starvation and disease have reduced them now to ten thousand and eventually there will be still less.’

‘They’ll be relieved.’

‘Not the way the British army is setting about it.’

She spoke with complete confidence in her beliefs and military knowledge. ‘How would you do it?’ Kelly asked.

‘With promises of guns and help, the Arabs could harass the Turks enough for the British to break through.’

‘Is that what the Arabs want?’

She smiled. ‘We are quite indifferent as to whether General Townshend is relieved or not, but we are eager to harass the Turks for you. Kut means nothing but Baghdad and Damascus do. With our help, the British could capture Akaba, Gaza, Jerusalem and Damascus, even as far north as Alexandretta. The Turks would then have to withdraw from the Narrows, and the Black Sea would be open to Allied ships.’

It sounded logical. The idea of using the Arab tribes to harass Turkish communications was a sound one. No one could live as they could in the desert or move faster across its arid wastes.

‘But time is running short,’ the girl went on. ‘With the Arab peasantry in the grip of Turkish military service and Syria prostrate, our assets are disappearing. We must strike now, however feebly, and keep on striking. That is why I am here. As soon as it can be arranged, you will go to Tripoli and from there a boat will take you to Egypt. You must tell your people there of our aims and our hopes and our needs. You must do something for us.’

‘You’re very brave,’ Kelly said.

Two large kohl-rimmed eyes met his. ‘I’m often frightened. Perhaps we have moved too soon. But on the other hand, perhaps a few lives must be paid for the sake of our pride.’

She seemed so intelligent, so unbiased, he felt he had to make a protest. ‘Those women who were captured: Can you accept that? As a woman?’

She shrugged. ‘Arab tribes have raided other Arab tribes since the beginning of time. They’ve always taken their women this way, and in any case, many of these women in Turkish families were originally Arabs. They are not dismayed.’

‘But you?’

‘I’m supposed to be emancipated. I’m supposed to be able to handle a rifle and shoot a man without turning a hair. I was educated in England where you have Suffragettes. Why should it be different here?’

‘Doesn’t it worry you?’

As she frowned in an effort to explain, she looked remarkably like Charley trying to explain her own devotion to another, different ideal.

‘Sometimes it bothers me a great deal,’ she admitted. ‘The worst is that I don’t know what I am supposed to be. At Cheltenham I was taught to regard as savages people who held the beliefs my people held. But I am one of them. So what am I? What am I supposed to think? Am I a civilised woman behaving in an uncivilised fashion? Or am I merely a savage taking what she can get when and where and how she can get it?’

There were unexpected tears in her eyes and the stern, grave face had crumpled a little.

‘I do not accept the Arab attitude that I am a mere chattel,’ she went on. ‘But I also cannot accept the Western attitude that I am an individual. Yet who among those out there can I regard as an equal? I’m lonely, I’m not an Englishwoman but I’m also not a savage.’ Her voice was despairing. ‘I don’t know what I am!’

They stayed with the Arabs for six days. A messenger was sent off the following morning towards Tripoli and they were warned that within a week they would be on their way.

Rumbelo’s wound began to improve and the fever he’d started began to subside. Arab clothing arrived in the tent and they all stared at each other, grinning.

‘I look like a cross between Abdul the Damned and Ethelred the Unready,’ Kelly said.

Because of the heat, for the most part they remained in the tent during the day, but every evening Jemil called for Kelly to lead him to the striped tent set apart from the others. At first Ayesha was grave and commanding, not giving an inch to the fact that Kelly was a man, but after two or three days he became aware of a difference, an unexpected shyness, and an attendance on his wishes and opinions. On the fifth night, the messenger returned from Tripoli and Jemil appeared at once. Ayesha was waiting for him.

‘There is a boat arriving in Tripoli,’ she said. ‘You will move off in the morning. We shall see you safely there.’

‘Isn’t it dangerous for you?’

She avoided meeting his eyes. ‘No more dangerous than anything else. I have promised that you shall go to Egypt. The British have an office there which deals with Arab affairs. Go to them. Tell them about us. Tell them we need their help.’

Greatly daring, he touched her hand. She didn’t pull it away and he took hold of her fingers. Abruptly, she lifted her head and looked him in the eyes. She was so small she made him feel tall and strong.

‘We shall come back,’ he said.

She gave a small, twisted smile. ‘I shall not be here to see the victory.’ Her hands were still in his, her head back, her eyes on his face. ‘But it will not matter. I am enough of a believer in Islam, despite Cheltenham, to accept that death is only a step to a better life. I shall not see the end of the war.’

Her fatalism was curiously frightening. ‘Of course you will!’

She shook her head, clearly unperturbed. ‘My father has two sons, both of far more importance than I. I shall never marry. I shall never know what love is.’

‘Do you want all these things?’

She looked up at him. ‘I want to be a woman. That is all.’ There were tears in her eyes again and to Kelly they were a clear green light. As he pulled her closer she abruptly flung herself into his arms.

For a moment he thought of Charley but it seemed to be a decision that needed little consideration. Ayesha was literally begging for love and, for God’s sake, he couldn’t just push her away and go full astern after she’d saved them from years of imprisonment. Surely there were times when a man could push moral aspects aside.

‘Ayesha–’ Kelly’s voice came out as a croak and he had to clear his throat.

She seemed to think he was about to reject her. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said quietly. ‘I understand how you feel. You are an honourable man.’

Not as honourable as all that, Kelly thought.

‘Your English boys found me attractive when I was in England.’ The small voice was plaintive, almost pleading. ‘But they tried hard always to behave with honour.’

Not me, Kelly told himself, feeling his pulses race. By God, not me! Not after eight months locked away from women. ‘I haven’t a scrap of honour, Ayesha,’ he said. ‘Not in circumstances like this.’

Her face was grave as her hands unfastened the girdle that held the robe round his waist, then her fingers slid inside it, cool and soft against his flesh. As she moved closer to him again, her head against his chest, her eyes turned shyly downwards, he pushed the garment she wore down from her shoulders.

The following morning they were on the move again, heading towards Tripoli.

Ayesha, wearing the white robes once more, her head-cloth across her face, rode several horses’ lengths in front. His face shadowed by the browfold of his headgear, Kelly watched her intently, ridiculous thoughts running through his head. There had been other girls before – the girl in New York and the Ice Maiden in Kiel – but they’d been older than he had and had made the running, enjoying teaching him the facts of life. This was different. He’d been the dominant partner and had known that this was what Ayesha had wanted.

He had awakened dazzled and humbled with her sleeping quietly alongside him, her head on his shoulder, her lips parted, her body soft and warm against him.

‘I’m glad it happened,’ she had announced gravely as her eyes had opened. ‘It makes so much more sense of all the rest of life.’

She was trying hard to be strong-minded, frank and intelligent, as doubtless she’d been taught by her English teachers. Cheltenham Ladies’ College would have been proud of her, and he wondered how much Jemil knew. The old man’s face was expressionless and he had greeted Kelly unemotionally as he had brought the horses round.

They rode all day and camped at night alongside the road to the coast, Ayesha keeping herself well away from the others, with Jemil between her and the rest of the party. During the following day, Kelly rode alongside her. She didn’t look at him but held her head up, her eyes in front.

‘I long for you,’ she said quietly.

That night, Kelly lay apart from the rest of the group, listening, his heart thumping at every sound. But no one came near him and, unable to sleep, his mind filled with thoughts of Ayesha, he tossed restlessly in his blanket. Then, long after everyone was asleep, he heard a stone click and caught a whiff of perfume. A moment later she was alongside him, clinging to him. Taking his hand, she laid it on her breast inside her robe and her lips sought his fiercely.

‘I could not stay away,’ she breathed.

They made love like children, without regard for the others, and as she lay panting alongside him, he glanced up. Dark against the night sky, a tall figure was waiting and he caught his breath. Then he realised it was Jemil and that the old man was a party to the business.

She left his side before daylight, and as they mounted in the grey light of dawn, her face was covered again and she rode ahead of them as if she’d never noticed Kelly. Eventually, they saw the sea in the distance and began to descend to the coast. The water was shining in the sun over the flat roofs of the port. As they stared at it, Ayesha dropped back.

‘Here we must be careful,’ she said quietly, the keen military planner once more. ‘Turkey might be dying of overstrain, but her military governors are men of agility and suppleness. Many of them are descendants of Greeks, Albanians, Circassians, Bulgars, Armenians and Jews, and though Turkey might be decaying,
they
are not.’

For a few minutes they rode together down the hill until they reached the first scattering of houses. Turkish troops moved about, their ear-flapped khaki caps over their eyes against the sun.

‘I shall never forget you,’ Ayesha murmured.

‘Ayesha, what can I do?’

Her head went up. ‘Only tell your people our needs,’ she said.

He was just about to reply when she reined in, and he saw a Turkish outpost ahead of them.

‘If anything happens,’ she said, ‘take the road to the right. It leads direct to the water’s edge. You’ll find plenty of friends.’ Her hand touched his. ‘We shall be able to hold them up if they are suspicious. Your duty will be not to hesitate.’

‘ I can’t leave you.’

‘You are used by your training to obey orders. You must not look back.’

As she kicked her horse into motion, the little column edged forward, and immediately the Turks began to emerge from a small red-tiled hut to fill the road. An officer wearing a sword appeared and the men parted for him.

Ayesha stopped. On their right was a narrow road winding between cypresses down the slope. ‘That is your road,’ she said quietly. ‘Don’t hesitate. It takes longer than this one but it will lead you into the city. You are a naval officer, so you should be able to find the sea, I think.’

As she moved forward, the little column lengthened, first Ayesha, then Jemil, then the others, with the British party waiting at the rear as they all passed, and as the leading riders stopped, the whole column came to a halt, strung out in small groups along the road like a broken bead necklace.