Читать книгу The Seventeen Thieves of El-Kalil - Talbot Mundy - Страница 3

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STEAM never killed Romance. It stalks abroad under the self-same stars that winked at Sinbad and Aladdin, and the only thing that makes men blind to it is the stupid craze for sitting in judgment on other people instead of having a good time with them.

“He who hates a thief is a thief at heart,” runs the eastern proverb that nevertheless includes in its broad wisdom no brief at all for dishonesty.

If you hated thieves in El-Kalil you would be busy and, like the toad under the harrow, inclined to wonder where the gaps are; you can see the graves of the men who have tried it, in any direction, from any hill-top; and Romance, which knows nothing of any moral issue, comes at last with the liquid moonlight making even whited tombs look sociable. But it is better to be sociable while you live, if only for the sake of having some good yarns to tell the other fellows during pauses in between the rounds of feasting in Valhalla, when you get there. El-Kalil is Hebron of Old Testament fame—the oldest known city in the world apart and aloof in the Judean Hills—dirt delightful and without one trace of respect for anything but tradition, courage and cash.

Yet it was contrary to all tradition that an American citizen should be on his way there with almost unlimited authority to up-end everything, and, after spilling all the beans, to sort out the speckled undesirables. We ran into lots of courage, but it was fear of an uprising and its consequences that set the ball rolling. And as for hard cash, it was lack of it that brought the courage out, providing only two young men and some cigarettes wherewith to hold calm and lawful the most turbulently lawless city in the Near East.

Grim took me along for several reasons but the chief one was that he chose so to do.

Having been commissioned in the British army as an American, he had stuck to more than one national peculiarity, of which that first and the sweetest was doing as he gosh darn pleased as long as he could get away with it. Having made good all along that line, he could get away with almost anything; and by that time, having risked a neck or two together, we were friends.

The second most important reason, I believe, was that he, and the few in authority over him, had discovered that I had no ax to grind. Life isn’t worthwhile to me if I’ve got to worry over other people’s morals or be a propagandist; to my way of looking at it, a man has a hard enough job to keep his own conscience from getting indigestion, while getting all the fun in sight, and there’s no fun whatever in forcing your opinions on other folk. And the other fellow’s job is difficult enough without our offering ignorant advice. Life’s a great game and the measure of our own cussedness is the measure with which we get cussed. Amen.

So I had fitted unofficially into one or two tight places and officialdom was therefore pleased to let down the bars that restrain the general tourist. But there was a third reason: I was utterly unknown in Hebron, and it is the unknown entity that upsets most calculations, like the joker in a pack of cards.

There were likely enough other reasons, but I did not know them. Behold Grim and me on a blossomy May morning, mounted on two Bikaneeri camels left over from the war, swinging along the road to Hebron in gorgeous sunshine at a cushiony, contenting clip.

The camels were less conspicuous in that landscape than the regulation Ford car would have been and you can’t travel fast enough even with gasoline to get ahead of the wind-borne word of mouth that ever since the Deluge has proved nearly as quick, if not quite so truthful always as the telegraph. To make us even less worth comment we wore the Arab costume that fits even a white man into the picture, and is comfortable past belief. Our other clothes were in the saddle-bags.

I know why the Jews want Palestine. I would want it too, if the world weren’t so full of other things I haven’t yet seen and admired. You feel like Abraham, on camel-back up in those hills, only without his responsibilities.

One of Abraham’s direct descendants met us coming the other way, close to where the road winds by the Pools of Solomon. He was in a one-horse carriage of the mid-Victorian era, drawn by an alleged horse of about the same date or vintage. On his head was a Danbury-made Derby hat and he had a horse-shoe stick-pin in his necktie, his thumbs stuck into his suspenders and his feet on the seat in front. But he passed us the time of day in ancient Hebrew, and Grim, who has studied that language for Intelligence Department purposes, stopped to answer him.

At the end of half-a-dozen sentences it was obvious that Grim knew more of the language than the other did. The revival of dead speech takes time, and there are not so many in the country yet who can use the old tongue fluently although Zionists usually begin a conversation with it for propaganda purposes.

“Talk English,” Grim suggested.

“What? You know English? Where d’you learn it?”

“In the States. Where else?”

“What? You lived in the States? What did you come back here for? Lots of room in the States for you fellers—good money—good living—get the vote an’ everything. Where’s your home now? Hebron?”

Grim nodded. The Jew pulled out a cigar.

“Well, I’ve just come from telling ’em in Hebron that they all ought to emigrate to the U.S.A.”

“Would they listen?”

“Good listeners. They listened so good, they got my watch and chain while I was talkin’, an’ they’d have had my pocket-book if I hadn’t locked it up in Jerusalem before I came away. Smoke cigars? Try this one. Say: if you come across a gold watch an’ chain with the initials A.C. done on it in a monogram across the back, just send word to Aaron Cohen at the New Hotel Jerusalem, and there’ll be a good reward for you. I went an’ complained at the Governorate, but that schoolboy they’ve made governor can’t do nothing about it. Take it from me, he’s got no brains and no police-force. I’ll buy the watch back and you tell ’em so—a good reward to whoever brings it, and no questions asked. Better have this cigar, hadn’t you?”

But you don’t smoke cigars on camel-back, at least not if you want to avoid being taken for a foreigner.

“Was the watch valuable?” Grim asked him.

“Would I worry about it if it was a cheap one? If it was a nine-carat case d’you think I’d have called the young governor all the names I did, and risk my life in the suk^[1] afterwards against his orders, arguin’ with a lot o’ knifers? Eighteen-carat—twenty-two jewels—breguet spring—say: get me that watch back an’ I’ll give you twenty U.S. dollars for yourself!”

“Don’t want ’em,” said Grim, smiling down placidly from the superior height of the camel.

“What—you don’t want dollars? Quit your kiddin’! There’s nobody in this land don’t want dollars.”

“How badly d’you want that watch?”

“Oh, all right—twenty-five, then: but that’s the limit.”

“Dollars won’t do. I know you for a good scout, Aaron Cohen, or I’d let you lose your watch for abusing young de Crespigny. That boy’s got his hands full. How’d you like to be Governor of Hebron?”

“—— up! I’d sooner be King of the Irish! He’s not a bad feller at that, only too thick with Arabs. He gave me a drink after I’d done criticizing. But say: what do you know about me?”

“And your emigration business? Nearly as much as you do!”

“Who are you, anyway?”

“My name is Grim.”

“What? Him they call Jimgrim? Pardon me! Somehow I thought you didn’t talk like an Arab. Well, you’re the very man I’m looking for. I want my watch back, Major Grim. I’ve got no money in my pocket or I’d give it to you, but there’s fifty dollars you can use however you please, and I’ll pay it on your say-so—no questions asked. Could anything be fairer than that?”

“D’you want it badly enough to turn back?”

“What—to that nest o’ thieves? To Hebron? To El-Kalil? Um-m-m! I got no money for one thing.”

“I’ll lend you whatever you need.”

“Your risk! If they skin it from me, it’s your money!”

“All right.”

“You must have some mighty strong reason for wanting me back in Hebron!”

“I have. You’ll be all right for a day or two. There’s a hotel.”

“Yey—I been there. The bugs in it have red-hot bear-traps on their feet and the food ain’t fit for niggers!”

“Well, d’you want the watch?”

“You’ll get it for me?”

“Yes, if you turn back.”

“Uh! If you were English I wouldn’t trust you; I’d say you were kiddin’ yourself or kiddin’ me. Go on, I’ll take a chance.”

“See you at the hotel then.”

Grim and I rode on and in five minutes hardly the dust of Cohen’s carriage was visible behind us. We rode side by side, but it is not easy to talk from camel-back, although the beasts’ feet make hardly any noise; I’ve a notion that the habitual reticence of the desert-folk is partly due to enforced silence for long periods on the march, when the swing and sway of the camels and the cloth over the rider’s mouth make conversation next to impossible. Grim’s information came in snatches.

“Good fellow, Cohen. Clever devil. Zionist. Thinks he can provide land here for Jews by encouraging Arabs to emigrate. Money behind him. Settle ’em on land in Arkansas and Tennessee. Kind fellow. Hot-air merchant. Good at bottom. Shrewd. Strange mixture of physical fear and impudent courage.”

“What makes you so sure you can recover the watch?”

“Experience of Hebron. I was governor there once.”

░ FOR an hour after that we padded along in silence through a country dotted with enormous herds of black goats in charge of patriarchal-looking shepherds. The only trees in sight were occasional ancient olives; but as we drew near Hebron the hillsides were all divided by stone walls into orchards and we passed between miles of grape-vines, interspersed with mishmish, as they call their apricots.

You don’t see Hebron until the road begins to descend into it, and then the first view is of a neat modern village with the German influence predominant; for there, as everywhere else in Palestine, the Germans had not been content with making plans; they built good stone houses. The ancient city lies beyond all that, utterly untouched by science—a chaotic jumble flaunted in the face of discipline.

We stopped in front of the Governorate, and that, of course was a German building, a neat little residence with a garden in front and a stone wall all about it, in sight of the jail which, equally of course, was Turkish. The Turks built nothing so good as their jails and the Germans strengthened them, but it took the British to clean them of vermin, and filth and untried prisoners.

The Hebron jail is outside the city for more good reasons than one. Where ninety-nine per cent of a city’s population is eligible for rigorous confinement on one ground or another and the cleverest thieves on earth are trained besides, no mere iron bars within the city limits would serve the purpose; you need open spaces all around for rifle and machine-gun fire—except of course, in famine time, when most of the population plans to be arrested and fed two square meals a day, at the foreign tax-payers’ expense.

Captain de Crespigny came out of the Governorate to greet us, smiling all over as a man should whose only dependable assistant has the tooth-ache.

“You know the wire is down behind you?” he said pleasantly.

“Since when?”

“An hour ago. I’m rather worried about a Jew named Cohen. I let him start for Jerusalem this morning. ’Fraid now he may get scuppered on the way.”

“It’s all right; we met him. He’s on his way back.”

“Oh, did you get wind of trouble here?”

“Not a thing. Wanted Cohen here for a special reason. What’s up?”

“I tried to phone through to Jerusalem for a machine gun. There’s nobody to send. We’ve a motor-cycle, but it’s napoo. That fellow Cohen lost his watch and I arrested a local Arab on suspicion soon after Cohen had gone. He’s over there in the jail now and four thousand of his friends have sworn an oath to take him out again by force. I’ve ten policemen—one first-class man and nine with the wind up them.”

“Are you sure the wire’s down?” Grim asked him.

“Perfectly. I’d call that luck, only now you’ve come. They couldn’t exactly have blamed me for bluffing the business through without orders and I think I could have tackled it. However, I suppose you take over?”

“Not if I know it!” Grim answered. “Make over to me when you’ve had enough, but no sooner.”

“Thanks. Come in and have a drink. Who’s your friend?”

“Ramsden—a countryman of mine.”

Grim introduced me and for the hundredth time in that man’s land I experienced the unmitigated delight of being accepted as an equal, instead of as a possibly objectionable person, on the strength of his mere say-so. As a general rule you can’t get past that suave screen the British use to camouflage their real thoughts, without a guide whom they know and trust; but when you’re in, you’re in.

De Crespigny was nothing unusual; clean-shaven, almost always laughing about something, looking about twenty although really twenty-six, probably not brilliant, but capable of swift judgment and astounding impudence in tight places. Obviously one of those well-bred young gentlemen, who have kept an empire’s borders by daring and straight dealing while the politicians did the bragging and the profiteers made hay. He wore several ribbons for distinguished service, but the only thing he seemed really proud of was a mixture he called a Hebron cocktail, made without ice from a recipe of his own invention.

It was a comfortable room we entered, for the Germans had left their furniture behind them and the walls were hung besides with deadly weapons taken away from the local cut-throats by this de Crespigny child, his one assistant, the one bold native policeman and the “nine with the wind up them.”

░ THE assistant came in while we watched the secret ritual of cocktail shaking in an ex-beer bottle; another boy, two years younger than his chief and, barring the tooth-ache, even more amused by the certainty that mass-murder was afoot. You could sum him up instantly. When a man thinks of his job first, and tooth-ache merely as a handicap, bet on him. Besides his name was Jones and that is a well-known label.

“Just come from the jail,” he announced. “Had to put Ali ben Hamza in a cell by himself; he was propaganding among the other prisoners. Perfectly friendly, though; assured me that you and I will both be dead before morning and offered to pull my tooth out with his fingers. Said he hated to see me suffer and that having your throat cut doesn’t hurt a bit.”

“Thought you were going to the doctor,” said de Crespigny.

“No time. He has his hands full anyhow. Hospital’s chock-a-block, and no one to help him operate. Any news?”

“Wire’s down.”

“Oh, good! That means Jerusalem can’t interfere and tell us not to do things. But—” glancing at Grim and me “—are you still in charge, ‘Crep’?”

“I’ve no orders to take over,” Grim assured him. “De Crespigny may pass the buck when he sees fit.”

“Pretty decent of you.”

“Suppose you fellows put me wise, though,” Grim suggested. “We’ll call it unofficial, but in case of need it might be wholesome for me to know the facts.”

“It’s all very simple,” said de Crespigny. “Aaron Cohen came here with a scheme for exporting Arabs to your country to make room for Jews. He offers to buy out their holdings for cash, to arrange their passage to the States, get passports for them and all that, and provide them with good land to settle on at the other end on easy terms. Perfectly fair and above-board if they wanted to do it, but they don’t.

“On top of that, the Jews in this place are Orthodox and hate the Zionists worse than they do pork. They made the mistake of telling the Arabs that Cohen was no good, whereas he’s quite a decent fellow really, if it weren’t for his infernal cheek. No need to tell you what the Moslems of this place are like. They stole Cohen’s watch for a joke and he said what he thought of them. They admit the truth of all he said—you know how engagingly frank they are about themselves—but take exception to criticism by any kind of Jew.

“Now they say that the Orthodox Jews put Cohen up to it and only went back on him afterwards because they were afraid. They say it’s really the Orthodox Jews of this place who are planning to get their holdings; and as most of them owe money to the Jews they propose to make short work of the lot of them. They’ve cut the wire to prevent our phoning for Sikhs and machine guns and the game is probably scheduled to begin tonight.”

Before de Crespigny had finished speaking two men came into the room and one of them, obviously a middle-aged Scotsman, sat down without waiting to be invited. The other, an Arab long past middle age, remained standing. Grim made a sign to me that I interpreted as a call to behave in keeping with the Arab costumes we were wearing and I hid my face as much as I reasonably could in the folds of the kufiyi.

“Allah ysabbak bilkhair! ^[2]” the old Arab began as soon as he could get a word in.

“Ahlan wasah’lan!” ^[3] said de Crespigny. “What is it, Yussuf?”

“You young men go! Go to your mothers! Go home and marry wives!”

“Why this sudden interest in our future, Yussuf?”

“It is not sudden. I am an old man, and have seen many young men die. I have yet to see the good that came of killing them. Go home.”

“Men die when their time comes,” said de Crespigny. “Moreover, they don’t marry wives in my land until the woman is willing. I’ve got no money and the girls won’t look at me.”

“It is not good to answer with jests when an old man speaks in earnest. I, who must see death soon in the natural course of things, advise you as a father speaking to his sons. Go home. It is better to beget sons than to die young.”

“You old raven! What are you croaking about?”

The Arab stroked his gray beard and thought a minute before he answered. Then:

“I have seen the blood flow in the runnels of the streets of El-Kalil like red storm-water. I was here when the Turks took vengeance on the city for certain matters. I have seen the seven districts of the city at war with one another and the executions afterwards. All those are as nothing in comparison to what comes! It is written that not one Jew shall remain alive in El-Kalil!”

“Any date to that prophecy?” asked de Crespigny quite calmly.

“They are whetting the swords now!”

“They’ll have us to reckon with before they begin on the Jews.”

“Truly, my son. Therefore go, before the sacrifice begins! What can you few do against so many? Can you send for help? I think not. I am told the wire is cut. Could a horseman or man on foot get through to Jerusalem alive? Not he! They would let you escape, but not your messenger; and if you stay, you die!”

“Supposing I chose to run away, they’d be fools to let me,” de Crespigny answered. “There’d be lorry-loads of Sikhs here two or three hours after I reached Jerusalem.”

“And the Sikhs will bury the dead Jews! Listen, my son. You British are not Turks. Who in this place is afraid of British vengeance, after living under the Turk’s heel so many years? The Sikhs will come and shoot a handful. There will be a trial, at which every witness will tell lies. Those who have the fewest friends will be convicted; some will be hanged and some imprisoned. For four thousand Jews slain will forty Moslems hang? Better go before the sacrifice begins!”

“You go back into the city,” said de Crespigny, as calmly as if he were ordering the streets cleaned, “and tell your friends this: There’s only one authority in this place, and that’s me! Say they have me to deal with before they can start on the Jews!”

“You and these few and ten policemen!” The old Arab smiled and spread out his hands in a gesture of something like despair. “They will go first to the jail, pillage it and set the prisoners free. Next they will come here, for there are rifles here and cartridges. In less time than the muezzin needs to cry his summons they will slay you and take the rifles. After the Jews! And after that, if it is written that the Sikhs shall come, then that is written, and who shall stay the hand of God?”

“Go and tell them to come here first before they try the jail,” said de Crespigny calmly. “That is all I have to say. Go and tell them.”

“Allah ysallmak!” ^[4] said the Arab sadly.

“Allah yihfazak!” ^[5] de Crespigny replied, and the old man turned and went.

“Doc.,” said de Crespigny, turning toward the Scotsman, “there are two camels outside. Better take them. Put Miss Gordon on one and you and she make a break for Jerusalem. This situation looks none too good.”

Doctor Cameron laughed dryly, wrinkling up his eyes as he looked keenly at each of us in turn. He was a big man, with a powerful head and a firm, good-tempered mouth under a scraggly gray moustache. He looked like an old soldier, but had never actually worn any other uniform than the mask and apron of the operating-room.

“Five-and-twenty years I’ve been here,” he replied. “Can you see me running away?”

“But the nurse—Miss Gordon?”

“She’s a fine girl. She’ll stand by. Ask her if you’d rather. I’ll not interfere.”

“Better send her to this place, then.”

“You young Hector! She’s safer in my hospital. They’ll do no murder there; we’re far too useful to them. I stood by them through the war as a Turks’ prisoner; they’ll remember that. There’s hardly a man in Hebron hasn’t been to me for help at one time or another. But what do you lads propose to do?”

“Brazen it out,” said de Crespigny.

“You’ll need all your brass, I’m thinking.” He looked hard at Jones. “That boy’s in no fit state to give the best that’s in him. I brought my bag with me. Let me see that lower jaw.”

He took Jones’ head in capable, enormous hands and tilted it toward the light.

“Open. Wider. Um-m-m! Sit on that stool. Reach me the bag, de Crespigny.”

He unwrapped a lancet and a pair of ugly forceps, then got behind Jones and gripped his head firmly between his knees.

“By rights ye ought to have an anæsthetic for a job like this, but your mother had to endure a lot worse when ye came into the world. We’ll see if you’re half as good a man as your mother. Now!”

It was a bloody business and not convenient to watch, but we all looked on like spectators at a play, pretending not to feel the skin creep up our spines. It was several minutes before the last piece of a broken tooth was tossed into the brass basin that a servant brought.

“Now lie down. If I ever meet your mother I’ll tell the lady that her labor was worthwhile. Ye’ll feel finely by and by. He might have an ounce or two of whisky.”

He wrapped up his tools, turned down his shirt-sleeves, and started for the door.

“If I can be of any further use, my boys, ye’ll know where to find me. The best advice I can give is, always let the Arab know you’re not afraid of him, and make him suspect ye’ve something in reserve. And by the way—ye’d better all join me at the hospital, if things look too bad. I think the rascals will respect that place. There’ll be bad news from Jerusalem before night or my name isn’t Cameron.”

De Crespigny glanced swiftly at Grim. Grim nodded. That was puzzling, for there had been no signs of disturbance that I could see when we came away that morning.

Cameron jerked his head and snapped his fingers in the doorway.

“They’d never talk so bold here if they didn’t know of trouble brewing in Jerusalem to keep the troops occupied,” he said, and strode out as if any sort of trouble were the merest commonplace.

I found it utterly impossible, sitting in that quiet room, to believe that we were in imminent danger; but that may have been because I had no official job to lose if everything should go wrong. A man doesn’t fear for his life as a rule until the raw facts stare him in the face; it is economic and administrative problems that cause terror in advance. I thought that even Grim, who hardly ever shows more emotion than the proverbial red Indian in times of stress, looked serious.

And some one else arrived just then, who took no trouble to conceal his feelings. Aaron Cohen had himself announced by the Arab servant and followed him into the room without waiting for an invitation. He did not speak at first, but stood looking from one to the other of us with an expression on his face mixed of comedy and desperation.

“Nice way to bring a feller back to this place!” he said at last. “I went to the hotel and they wouldn’t let me in. Said they’d trouble enough in store without me. Gave me a fine talk, they did. Pogrom—that’s the name of it! Down at that hotel they’re saying all the Jews in Hebron will be dead before morning and they’re blaming me for it. What have I done?” He faced Grim and glared at him. “D’you call that acting on the level, to bring me back to this place when you knew what was in the air?”

“You’d never have reached Jerusalem alive,” said de Crespigny.

“Has that young feller been knifed?” asked Cohen, pointing at Jones on the couch. He was still spitting blood at intervals, so the question was excusable.

“Sit down, Cohen,” Grim answered. “You’re as safe here as anywhere at present. Will you have his bag brought in, de Crespigny? Now, Cohen, you didn’t start this trouble, but your talk brought it to a head. It’s up to us to smooth the thing out if we can, but it’s going to be no joking matter. I’m asking you to keep quiet and to help us if there’s an opportunity. Will you?”

“Sure, I’ll help,” said Cohen. “But what can I do?”

“Dunno yet,” Grim answered. “Captain de Crespigny’s in charge. We’ll see.”

—————

1 ↑ Bazaar

2 ↑ God give you a happy morning!

3 ↑ A thousand times welcome!

4 ↑ God save you!

5 ↑ God keep you!