Chapter XXVI: A Dread Tribunal

When Jamileh Khanum’s message reached Sardiyeh, it put an end at once to the tranquil and monotonous life which the two captives had been leading. They were informed late in the evening, immediately after the arrival of the courier, that they must prepare to start on a journey early the next morning, but they sought in vain from their gaolers for particulars of their destination, and for the reason of the sudden move. At first they consoled themselves under this taciturnity by mutual assurances that when they had once started they would certainly be able to discover at least the general direction of their march from the features of the country and the course of the sun; but when the time for the journey came, they found that this solace was to be denied them. A mule-litter was brought into the courtyard--not a gorgeous _takhtrevan_ like that in which Jamileh Khanum queened it at the head of the harem procession, but a far humbler contrivance--and they were assisted to mount into it. It consisted simply of two large panniers, or _kajavahs_, suspended one on either side of a tall and sturdy mule, and surmounted by a high framework of cane, covered in and curtained all round with thick haircloth, so that the occupants found themselves in a kind of small dark tent, with the mule’s back between them as a table. The position in which they were obliged to remain was an exceedingly cramped and uncomfortable one, more especially to Cecil, since her pannier had to be weighted with several large stones in order to balance Um Yusuf’s, the good woman being much heavier than her mistress. The rough curtains promised certainly to be useful in keeping out the cold mountain winds, for it was now winter, and in this highland district the snow was on the ground, but they would also prevent entirely any sight of the scenery passed on the road. For the moment, however, they were left undrawn, while the agas were busy seeing to the loading of the baggage-mules, and Cecil took a last look through the open doorway of the court at the white houses of the little town, and at the frowning mountains beyond, in some cleft of which was Charlie’s nameless grave.

“It is like leaving home again, Um Yusuf,” she said, with tears in her eyes. “I should like to stay here always.”

Perhaps Um Yusuf, like Lady Haigh, detested sentiment. At any rate, she disliked the mountains very heartily, and she answered rather snappishly--

“You do no good here, mademoiselle. Once we leave this horrid place, you get plenty work to do, feel better.”

Here the agas came and drew close the black curtains, and the mule started off, led by a stalwart villager, who had been impressed into the Pasha’s service, and whose guttural remarks to the animal were the chief sounds that reached the ears of the two captives during the next fortnight, after which he was allowed to return to his home as best he might. The journey, which was carried on under such uncomfortable conditions for Cecil and Um Yusuf, lasted in all sixteen days, during which time they never obtained an inkling of their destination, knowing only that their caravan was kept persistently on the march during the hours of daylight. At night a tent was pitched for them, in which they found their own mattresses and other baggage; and with respect to food, they fared as well as did their guards, who exacted from the peasantry in the Pasha’s name whatever they desired. They never halted at night until after the sun was set; and whenever in the early morning they succeeded, as they passed from the tent to the litter, in obtaining a glimpse of the surrounding scenery, it was always unfamiliar to both of them. When on the march, it was possible for them to tell whether the mule was going up or down hill, and also whether the road traversed was smooth or rough or slippery, but these changes were far too frequent and bewildering to be any guide as to the locality.

When they had journeyed on for about ten days, the prisoners noticed a great change in their surroundings, much more bustle and conversation being perceptible about them than before. After much careful listening, they became aware that their caravan had joined another and a much larger one, in which women’s voices, all speaking Kurdish, were distinctly audible. That night they rested at a wayside khan, instead of in tents; and although a compartment of the building, called by courtesy a room, was specially reserved for Cecil and her maid, it was invaded, in the temporary absence of the agas, by several of the Kurdish ladies, who came to stare at their fellow-travellers. They seemed to wish to be friendly, but as neither party knew anything of the other’s language, the only possible approach to communication was to smile affably at one another and exchange gestures of mutual goodwill. One of the visitors brought with her her baby, which was suffering from ophthalmia; and when they were gone, Cecil bethought her of a little bottle of eye-water among her possessions, and despatched Um Yusuf after them to offer it to the mother. The attention seemed to be appreciated, for the chief of the Kurdish ladies sent them presently, through one of the agas, a dish from her own supper, and Cecil overlooked the extremely doubtful and untempting nature of the gift in view of the kindness intended. While she nibbled daintily at one or two fragments chosen from the mass, and Um Yusuf ate her way steadily through it, it struck Cecil to ask whether her maid had found any one among the strangers’ slaves able to speak Arabic or Turkish. Um Yusuf shook her head, but Cecil, knowing the marvellous freemasonry of signs by which the servants of different nationalities were able to carry on whole conversations without uttering a word, asked whether she had discovered anything about the Kurdish ladies.

“They prisoners, like us,” said Um Yusuf, withdrawing her attention for a moment from the tray of food. “They come from the mountains, but not know where they go. Chief lady’s husband very great man, but I think he killed or in prison. Ladies all hate Pasha very much.”

This was all that the two captives could learn from their companions in misfortune, but both parties felt some consolation in each other’s presence. The agas appeared to have no objection to their charges mingling with the Kurdish ladies, probably considering that little mischief could be done without the aid of the tongue, and Cecil found herself installed as consulting physician to her new friends, thanks to her eye-water, which showed signs of effecting a cure. With other ailments she was not so successful, owing to the difficulty of discovering symptoms by the aid of signs alone; but the mountain ladies held her in prodigious respect, and acquiesced cheerfully in the keeping for her of the best room every night at the khan, even going out of their way to do her little kindnesses. Thus the days went on until one afternoon when Um Yusuf and her mistress, jogging along in their respective _kajavahs_, heard one of the agas say to the other--

“Go to the leader of the caravan, O Mansûr, and urge him to push on, that we may reach the city by sunset, for there is a storm coming up.”

Cecil and Um Yusuf looked across at one another in the twilight of their moving tent with a sudden tightening of the breath, and their hands met mechanically in a convulsive clasp. They were nearing a city, and therefore some change, possibly some crisis, was at hand. It was with the most strained interest that they observed the mule’s stately pace quicken gradually, and heard the shouts and blows of the camel-drivers around them, as they urged on their animals. After a time there came a pause, in which the shouting and quarrelling that generally marked the progress of the caravan seemed to grow louder.

“A block at the gate,” said Cecil in a voice of subdued eagerness, and presently the caravan moved on again, and the travellers became conscious of the hum of a great city all around them. But there was nothing to tell them where they were. The babel of many tongues which met their ears might belong to almost any city in the East; and the call of a muezzin, which forced itself upon their hearing from the minaret of a mosque as they passed along, was as little distinctive. Immediately afterwards they turned into a stone-paved court, passed through various doorways and passages, and finally stopped in another courtyard. One of the agas drew back the curtains, and Cecil, with beating heart, allowed herself to be helped down, and looked round in a tumult of anticipation. What she expected to see she could not have told, but the reality which met her eyes was disappointing. It was neither familiar nor out of the way, merely the inner court of an ordinary whitewashed house, which, for all its distinctive peculiarities, might have been found in any city of South-Western Asia or Northern Africa. Above was a stormy sky, in which black rolling clouds were fast obscuring the rays of the setting sun. Standing beside the mule were the two agas, engaged in giving confidential directions to a middle-aged negress of a peculiarly stolid and sturdy type, while Um Yusuf, just helped down from her perch, was sitting on the ground and groaning out that she had the cramp all over her limbs. There was no sign of the friendly Kurdish ladies, no trace of any inhabitants other than their own party in the house. As Cecil realised this, the agas, having finished their colloquy, led the mule out of the yard, and the prisoners found themselves left alone with the negress, who motioned to them silently to follow her. They obeyed disconsolately enough, and she led them through several passages to a tiny room with one window high up in the wall. Here she left them, returning presently to bring in coffee and a dish of food, uncertain in its nature and by no means captivating in its appearance, and then departing again. Um Yusuf slipped out immediately, and Cecil divined that she was going to try her powers of fascination on their guide. But she returned discouraged.

“She not tell anything,” she observed, morosely. “Worse than the Kurds; they not able to talk. There! you hear, mademoiselle? She lock us in.”

The grating of the ponderous key in its complicated lock was distinctly audible, and Cecil resigned herself with a sigh to the hard fact that it was absolutely impossible to obtain any clue to their whereabouts that night. When they had partaken of their untempting repast, Um Yusuf unrolled and spread out the bedding, but the storm had begun, and the gusts of wind which shook the house were so violent that neither she nor her mistress felt inclined to sleep.

“Where are we, Um Yusuf?” asked Cecil. Um Yusuf cast up her eyes and lifted her empty hands to indicate absolute ignorance.

“Do you think they can have taken us across the mountains to Sulaminyeh?” pursued Cecil, putting into words a fear which had begun to haunt her.

“Yes, mademoiselle, that what I think,” returned Um Yusuf.

Cecil was silent, listening to the patter and swish of the storm, and the fall of the plaster from the ceiling. The wind moaned and howled, and seemed to be almost strong enough to tear the house from its foundations, while over all there came a loud rushing sound, now close at hand, now farther off, like that of water lashed into fury by a tempest. She did not recognise it at first, but it occurred to her suddenly what it was.

“Listen!” she said to Um Yusuf, glad of any pretext for doubting the dreadful suggestion which she had herself made. “I am sure I hear the sound of waves washing up against the walls. The house must be on the river somewhere. Can we be at Mohammerah?”

“No, mademoiselle; we not passed the marshes, and journey not long enough. I think this Sulaminyeh. Why not river there?”

Cecil shuddered. To be imprisoned in the heart of Kurdistan, many long miles away from any English or even European official, with no one to whom to appeal for protection or justice, was not a comfortable prospect. She said no more to Um Yusuf, and at last, as they sat side by side upon their mattresses, she dropped asleep, lulled by the howling of the wind. After what seemed only a few minutes, though she knew later that it must have been some hours, she awoke with a start, to find that it was broad daylight, and that Um Yusuf was standing beside her with an excited face.

“Mademoiselle, we in the plains again, not at Sulaminyeh. That storm not rain at all, dust-storm. I think this place Mosul. When dust fall about in the night, I think it only stuff off walls, but now I look, see it all thick on everything. You see this?”

Cecil sat up, and gazed in bewilderment at the handful of dust and sand which Um Yusuf had gathered up as a precious treasure. Then she recognised the maid’s allusion to the dust-storms peculiar to the Euphrates Valley, and conceived for the handful of dust an affection akin to that which Noah must have felt for the olive-leaf brought him by the dove. The fact that everything in the room was covered with gritty sand, and that it had made its way into her hair and clothes, was not worthy of notice in view of this discovery, and she and Um Yusuf made a rather difficult toilet with thankful hearts. They breakfasted on the remains of their last night’s supper, which had fortunately been covered up and had thus escaped the dust, and immediately afterwards the unattractive negress who had been their guide the night before unlocked the door and came in with a great bundle in her arms.

“It is commanded thee to put on these clothes, O my mistress,” she said in Arabic, dumping down the bundle before Cecil, and retiring forthwith.

Much mystified, Cecil helped Um Yusuf to undo the bundle, and drew out of it one of the long loose gowns with square-cut neck and wide hanging sleeves, worn by Turkish ladies of the old school. It was of blue silk interwoven with silver threads, and to wear with it there was a vest or chemisette of delicate straw-coloured gauze, and a round velvet cap decorated with silver coins. The two women gazed at one another in astonishment as they unfolded the garments and smoothed them out.

“What does it mean, Um Yusuf?” asked Cecil, almost in a whisper.

“It look to me like wedding-dress, mademoiselle,” responded Um Yusuf, in the same awed tones. “Perhaps you going to be married.”

“That is absurd, Um Yusuf,” said Cecil, with unusual sharpness. “But I won’t put it on, at any rate.”

Presently the negress returned, and after a glance of surprise at the neglected finery, informed Cecil that the great ladies commanded her attendance.

“What ladies?” asked Cecil.

To her amazement the woman replied--

“The Um-ul-Pasha and the Kitchuk Khanum Effendi.” This was Jamileh Khanum’s official title.

Cecil’s spirits rose with a bound. Here, at any rate, were foemen worthy of her steel, which was certainly not the case with the agas, who could only answer, “Khanum Effendi’s orders,” to all remonstrances, and she sprang up to follow the negress with keen anticipations of a coming struggle.

“Perhaps they are come to Mosul for Azim Bey’s wedding with Safieh Khanum,” she whispered to Um Yusuf; but the good woman shook her head in perplexity.

“Azim Bey not to be married until he seventeen,” she began, but just then their guide drew back a curtain and ushered them into the presence of the great ladies. Cecil had made up her mind what to do. The moment she observed that neither of the ladies made any reply or return to her salaam and salutation, she sat down at once without waiting to be invited, regardless of the contrast afforded by her travel-stained blue wrapper and yellow slippers to the wadded and fur-trimmed pelisse and trousers of green satin which formed the winter dress of the Um-ul-Pasha, or to Jamileh Khanum’s Parisian morning-robe of petunia velvet, with its front of costly lace. The ladies sat at the upper end of the room, facing her, the Um-ul-Pasha in the seat of honour in the corner of the divan, her daughter-in-law beside her. At a respectful distance sat Mdlle. Katrina, palpitating with eagerness. To this excellent woman conspiracy was the very breath of life. She would have plotted against herself cheerfully if she could by any means have imported sufficient mystery into the proceedings, and she had been the Um-ul-Pasha’s go-between with the outer world throughout her long series of plots. At her mistress’s command she now set to work to interpret her words to Cecil without further parley.

“Why have you not put on the clothes I sent you, mademoiselle?” was the first question.

“Because they are not suited to my circumstances,” Cecil replied at once. “I am a stranger and a prisoner, and the clothes seem to be intended for a festival.”

“What has that to do with you?” asked the Um-ul-Pasha. “Do you wish to scorn my gifts, mademoiselle?”

“Certainly not, your Excellency,” responded Cecil, politely. “I only wish to be sure that there are no conditions attaching to them.”

“Mademoiselle, your tone is unsuitable. Know then, that now that your term of service in the household of my son, the Pasha, has expired, I have determined to provide suitably for you, and I have found you a husband, who is willing to take you on my recommendation. And let me tell you, mademoiselle, that without my recommendation you would have had little chance indeed of obtaining a husband at all.”

“I am extremely grateful for the Um-ul-Pasha’s kind intentions, but I must respectfully decline her offer,” said Cecil.

“And why, pray?” demanded the old lady, through her interpreter. “Your betrothed husband is dead, so what obstacle is there?”

“Dr Egerton may be dead,” returned Cecil, her eyes filling with tears at this rough mention of her loss, “but that does not alter my feelings towards him. My heart is his still, and I will not marry any one else.”

“But we will make you,” cried Jamileh Khanum.

“You ought to know, Khanum, that a British subject cannot be legally married out here except under the British flag,” said Cecil, somewhat more calmly.

“Bah! who is to know or care whether the marriage is legal or not?” demanded Jamileh Khanum, contemptuously.

“There is a British vice-consul in Mosul, and I will appeal to him,” said Cecil, her colour rising angrily. The affair was becoming absurdly and irritatingly melodramatic, and she found it difficult to keep her own part of the conversation to the everyday level that she felt was safest.

“You speak like a fool,” said the Um-ul-Pasha. “As yet, praise be to God! our harems are sacred from the infidel. We will give out that you are a Yezidi captive, and the Frangis cannot touch you.”

“That will not help you,” said Cecil, as coolly as she could. “Do you think for a moment that when the bride’s proxies came to demand my consent to the marriage, anything would make me give it?”

“Yes,” said Jamileh Khanum. “We could force you to give it.”

“Could you?” said Cecil, very quietly. “Perhaps you would like to try?”

She looked so absolutely undaunted as she sat facing them, every nerve on the stretch with excitement, a red spot burning on either cheek, that her opponents felt an uncomfortable sensation of approaching defeat. Was it possible that the Frangi woman was going to defy them after all? They had thought of her as a gentle, timid creature, amenable to the slightest pressure after the troubles she had gone through, but the reality was disappointing. The intended victim had risen to the occasion, and was ready to fight to the last, and the two ladies on the divan turned from her and began a hasty conversation, most of which was perfectly audible to Cecil. Indeed, but for the sake of the Um-ul-Pasha’s dignity, which she conceived made it derogatory to her to speak directly to the infidel, the interpreter would have been unnecessary throughout.

“What are we to do? This will spoil everything,” said the Um-ul-Pasha.

“Starve her, break her spirit!” cried Jamileh Khanum.

“But there is no time,” objected the Um-ul-Pasha. “Whatever we do must be done at once. Let us send for Azim Bey, and bid him devise a plan to set things right.”

“Never!” cried Jamileh Khanum, fiercely. “What! shall that young Shaitan laugh at my son’s beard?” This was a bold figure of speech, for little Najib Bey was barely two years old. “Let us send the Frangi woman a cup of coffee.”

“Art thou mad?” cried the Um-ul-Pasha, aghast at the sinister suggestion. “Are we not yet deep enough in disgrace with my son, and shall we bring the wrath of the Balio Bey upon our heads as well? I tell thee this is our only chance. The boy has a wise head, and for the sake of his family will devise some scheme by which our credit may be saved and all set right.”

“Do as thou wilt,” said Jamileh Khanum; “I will have no hand in it,” and she rose and swept from the room, flinging a curse at Cecil as she went. Presently the Um-ul-Pasha and Mdlle. Katrina followed her out, and Cecil and Um Yusuf were left alone, waiting in breathless expectancy.