With the urgent matter of supplying the besieged household with water solved, it was possible to press on with the plans for the raising and the collecting of supplies at Marseilles, and the women of Beit-el-Tani worked as they had never worked before; kneading and baking until they were exhausted, making hard flour-cakes that were packed into wicker baskets and conveyed by night to Marseilles to be stored there to feed the soldiers, freed slaves and volunteers who were being rallied to the Heir-Apparent’s cause. Cholé drove them on to greater and greater efforts, and Salmé, who could write, was pressed into service as a secretary and spent her days in corresponding with the chiefs; passing on Bargash’s commands, ordering the collection and dispersal of arms and ammunition, and urging the importance of secrecy and speed.
Thérèse Tissot’s predictions had proved remarkably accurate. Majid and his ministers and officials had all been far too taken up with surrounding the Heir-Apparent’s house (and congratulating themselves on having thus checkmated the malcontents and brought the entire conspiracy to ruin) to trouble themselves over-much with what might be going on in other parts of the Island. They kept a desultory eye on Beit-el-Tani, but paid no attention to the comings and goings of the numerous servants who were employed there, and though surprised that Bargash and his household should be able to hold out for so long without water, confidently expected his surrender at any moment—it being obvious that any store of water laid in before the siege must by now be running very low.
Everything, in fact, appeared to be going according to plan, and Majid was inclined to be grateful for Rory Frost’s absence. Rory, he felt, would have nagged at him to take further and more stringent action. But the present situation, though it might with more justice be likened to a stalemate rather than checkmate, was perfectly satisfactory in that it would not only teach his brother, but his disloyal sisters and their friends as well, the uselessness of rebellion against the properly constituted authority of their Sultan. In addition to which, when thirst at last forced Bargash to sue for mercy, he would emerge a sadder and wiser man and no longer an object of admiration to his followers, since the whole city would be a witness to his humble surrender and the humiliating collapse of his hopes. There would be no glamour attached to it, as there might well have been had he been sent into exile or imprisoned somewhere on the mainland. Moreover, he, Majid, would demand that ten thousand crowns back!
The Sultan congratulated himself on his astute handling of a difficult situation, and turned his attention to an equally long-standing and now urgently pressing problem: the chronic shortage of funds in the Treasury; now further depleted by that bribe to Bargash.
Occupying a throne, mused Majid-bin-Saïd, was not half as pleasant as envious people imagined it to be. And for perhaps the hundredth time since he had ascended this one, he wondered if he would not have been a great deal happier and a lot more comfortable as a private individual.
He would have had no doubts at all about that had he been aware that even as he sat musing on the injustice of life and the emptiness of his Treasury, his brother’s supporters had sent word from Marseilles that all was at last in readiness for a rising that would, if successful, deprive him of that throne and relegate him to the cold privacy of a grave.
The letter had been brought to the upper room at Beit-el-Tani, cunningly concealed in an orange, and Salmé had read it and turned pale with excitement: “It is done, Cholé! They are ready! They say they will march on the city as soon as we send word, and while one half of the force surrounds the Palace and takes Majid captive, the other will release Bargash and proclaim him Sultan. Let us send them word to march at once!”
“No!” said Cholé violently. “No!”
The blood had left her face and she looked pale and drawn, but her emotion, unlike Salmé‘s, was apprehension and not excitement.
“But Cholé?” Salmé dropped the crumpled sheet of paper and stared aghast. “Why? What is the matter? We have prayed for this moment.”
“I know. I know! But Bargash must be at their head. We cannot let this begin without him—we must not!”
Cholé struck her slender palms together in a sudden passion of anxiety, and said wildly and as though the words had been wrenched from her: “I do not trust them! If he were not there to lead them, they might well put one of the chiefs in his place. Who can tell what ambition and opportunity may suggest to a man? And if they march on the city while our brother is still held captive, Majid may give the order for his death in the hope that hearing they have lost their leader they may also lose heart and turn back. We cannot risk it. We must free Bargash first. They will have to wait. Send them word that they must wait!”
There was no excitement in Salmé‘s face now. Only horror as she too perceived the pitfall at their feet. Who indeed could tell what ambition might not do to men? Look what it had done to Bargash! And who would blame Majid if, with his brother’s rebel army advancing against him, he slew that brother while he still had the power to do so?
“Tell them to wait!” repeated Cholé, her voice rising in the scented silence of the upper room.
“Yes, yes; I will tell them,” whispered Salmé, searching with trembling fingers for paper and inkhorn.
She wrote quickly, the scratching of the quill keeping pace with her frightened breathing and the hammering of her heart, and when she had finished she folded the paper small, and wrapping it in a fragment of oiled silk, thrust it into the orange that had contained the original message, and clapped her hands to summon her serving-woman.
“See that it is delivered safely, and with all speed,” ordered Salmé, and slipped a gold piece into the woman’s palm.
The soft slap of bare feet on the stone stairway faded and was lost, and Cholé said tensely: “We must think! We must think! There must be some way out.”
For Bargash? What way? How can he leave while a hundred or more of Majid’s soldiers surround his house?”
“The windows,” said Cholé. “If we could only get him over here we could—No, we cannot do it that way. It is too far for a ladder or a plank to stretch between them without danger of it breaking under his weight—”
“A rope?” suggested Salmé. “If he let himself down with a rope into the alleyway, and we pulled him up with another?”
“It would be too dangerous, because if the soldiers saw him they would fire. And even if they did not kill him, they would never leave the windows unguarded again, and we should lose our only way of communicating with him. That will not do. It will have to be something else. Something safer…”
“No way will be safe,” wailed Salmé despairingly.
“Of course not! But anything will be better than letting the rebellion break out without Bargash to lead it We shall have to think of something. Could we not disguise him?”
“As what? They wouldn’t allow anyone out—not even a child!”
“No, but they might allow us in. Yes!—that’s how we could do it!”
“Cholé, are you mad?”
Cholé gave a shaken laugh. “Not mad, only desperate. Listen, Salmé—we have never yet attempted to visit our besieged brother or even ask if we might see our sister Méjé, whose position as a woman in a house now full of strange men must be very difficult.”
“How could we, when we would only have been turned back by the soldiers? We, the Seyyidas of the Royal House. The humiliation of it would have blackened our faces before every chattering idler in Zanzibar, and we should never have been able to lift up our heads again. You know we could not attempt such a thing!”
“We could and we must. We must go by night—you and I and Schembua and Farschu too, each of us with a picked band of waiting-women. We can say that we only wish to speak with our poor sister Méjé, and beg the guards to let us through. If we take them by surprise they may give us leave.”
“We couldn’t—we can’t—they would never permit it! Oh, Cholé, no!
Cholé lifted her small head haughtily and her voice was hot with pri
de. “We are, as you so truly said, Seyyidas of the Royal House. And if we, the daughters of Seyyid Saïd, ask it ourselves of the Commander of the guard, how can he refuse?”
Salmé gave a gasp of pure horror. “You mean to speak to a strange man, unveiled? A common soldier? No, Cholé! It is unthinkable!”
“Nevertheless,” said Cholé harshly, “we must think of it. And not only think of it, but do it. Send for Farschu and Schembua. There is no time to waste. How many tall women have we among our servants and slaves? We must take two or three with us who are as tall as Bargash; more if possible.”
“There are several among the negro slaves,” said Salmé doubtfully,” but I do not think any of the other women are particularly tall. It is only white women and negroes who grow as tall as men.”
“White women—!” That girl who walks like a boy and who showed us how to take the water into Bargash’s house. She shall help us again. We must send for her at once! If we ask it as a great favour, saying that we are all very much afraid, but that knowing her to be both clever and courageous—and also a friend to us—her presence will give us the courage we need to carry out this dangerous undertaking, she will surely come. One has only to look at her to see that!”
“But why ask her at all? We don’t need her. We have plenty of slaves just as tall as she is—taller.”
“Of course we have!” said Cholé impatiently. “I wish you would use your head, Salmé! Can’t you see that if she is with us, and things go wrong, we need only say to Majid that it was not our plan but hers? That she persuaded us into doing it, and we were afraid to disobey her because her nation is a powerful one and we supposed her to be acting under the orders of her uncle, the Consul? Then Majid will not dare do anything either to her or to us, for fear it is true and that her country may send ships with guns to support Bargash!”
“She will not come,” said Salmé unhappily. “She would not dare. The water was different, since that was to save men and women from thirst. And of the other matter she had no understanding. But for her uncle’s sake she cannot meddle in such an affair as this.”
Cholé said angrily: “Am I a fool? Do you think that we need to tell her that we plan to free our brother so that he may set himself at the head of an army? There are times when you talk like a child, Salmé! I shall tell her that Majid’s advisers are demanding his death, and that we fear for his safety and would spirit him out of the country in order to save him from assassination. These foreigners will believe anything, and she will feel that she has done a noble thing in saving his life. Write at once.”
“She cannot read Arabic well,” faltered Salmé.
“Then send word by Mumtaz to that foolish Englishwoman, the widow, and tell her we must see her. It is all a game to those women; they delight to think that they are at the centre of great affairs, and so they will come. Quickly, Salmé!”
Cholé had not been mistaken. Hero had instantly agreed to go, explaining to the apprehensive Cressy, who urged her to refuse, that with a man’s life at stake it was impossible to return any other answer. How would she feel if she were to refuse her help, and then learn later that he had been cold-bloodedly murdered—and all for the want of a little enterprise? It was an excellent plan and she was surprised that those girls had had the sense to think of it: and deeply touched that they should ask for her assistance in carrying it out, not merely on account of her height, but because they felt that her presence among them would give them courage. How could anyone refuse a plea like that?
“You are so brave,” breathed Olivia. “‘Hero’ indeed—in nature as well as name.”
“Stuff!” said Hero, irritated.
18
Aunt Abby had provided unwitting assistance to the plotters by complaining of a headache and retiring early to bed that night, for in order to avoid disturbing her later, Uncle Nat had abandoned a projected rubber of whist and gone up with her, and the younger members of the party had soon followed their example.
“Now remember, Cressy, “warned Hero; “you are not to get into a fever if I am a little late getting back, for I shall have Fattûma with me and you may be sure that we shall be back around midnight. And do stop looking so scared. If I’m not, there is no reason why you should be.”
“If you must know,” said Cressy flatly, “I feel sick with fright, and I think you must be mad. But I can see there is no use arguing with you any more.”
“None,” agreed Hero gaily, divesting herself of her hoops and exchanging her black silk dinner dress for something more suited to the night’s activities. She kissed her cousin affectionately and, after a few last instructions, let herself quietly out of the room.
The house was in darkness, but by keeping a hand upon the banisters she found it easy enough to reach the hall. Her feet made no noise on the stone stairs or the polished chunam of the hall, and the rustle of her dress was too soft a sound to be heard above the night noises of the city. But the door bolts rasped and a hinge creaked a complaint as she let herself out onto the terrace, and she stood quite still for a minute or two, listening, and hearing no movements, drew a breath of relief and closed the door gently behind her.
There was no moon as yet, but the starlight was bright enough to show her the way across the terrace and down the short flight of steps into the garden, where the paths gleamed faintly white between the massed borders of flowers and shrubs. She had forgotten that they were strewn with crushed shells, and the frail stuff crunched under her thin shoes with a sound that seemed magnified out of all proportion by the silence. But the house remained dark, and only a night-jar called harshly from the shadows as she reached the shelter of the orange trees, where a hand came out of the leafy blackness and touched her.
Fattûma had brought the same shoes and sombre outer clothing that Hero had worn once before when she had visited The Dolphins’ House, and five minutes later, muffled from head to foot, the two women were letting themselves out through the garden door that the night-watchman had been bribed to leave unlocked.
“I have told him that I go to meet a friend,” giggled Fattûma. “A man friend. He thinks it is a matter of the heart and that he is helping two lovers, the old fool! But we must be back before it is light, or we shall find it locked against us.”
They did not see many people in the streets, for they avoided the more frequented thoroughfares and kept as far as possible to the lanes and alleyways where there were few lights and no crowds to jostle them. But once Hero suffered a flash of panic when they paused at a street comer, and she looked back and saw a man who was obviously a member of the Western community cross the road behind her. He was wearing what appeared to be a dark cloak over a suit of white tropical duck, and for a moment she was sure that it was Clayton and that he was following her. But the next minute he had turned into a narrow cul-de-sac and disappeared from view, and she realized that in spite of her boasted calm she was allowing her nerves to get the better of her.
If Clay had seen her leave the Consulate he would certainly have caught up with her and stopped her instead of following her. And if she were going to allow her imagination to turn some harmless European clerk into Authority dogging her footsteps, then her conscience could not be as clear as she supposed! which was absurd, because of course it was clear: she was on an errand of mercy—helping to save a man from assassination and his brother from the sin of fratricide. Hero clutched her dark draperies about her, and hurrying forward again was careful not to look back at the next turning.
She was unfamiliar with the route they had taken, but she knew when they neared the harbour, for she could hear the sound of the surf and the voices of the soldiers who were on guard before the Heir-Apparent’s house. Beit-el-Tani was dark and quiet, but there were two women waiting for her at the kitchen entrance, and Fattûma touched her on the arm, and whispering that she would stay there until the Bibi returned, squatted down inside the doorway as the women led Hero swiftly up winding stairways and along stone passages to the room where t
he Seyyidas awaited her.
“You are late!” snapped Cholé; words and voice betraying the extent of her nervous agitation.
There seemed to be a great many women in the room, all of whom appeared to be excited and overstrung, and Hero noticed that at least half-a-dozen of them were negro or Abyssinian slaves: tall women wearing long cloaks and head coverings of coarse blue cotton, whose eyeballs showed white with alarm in their anxious ebony faces. The Arab women were draped from head to foot in dark scheles similar to Hero’s own, and under their fringed head-dresses their faces looked as white as hers. But their doe eyes flickered and started in the manner of frightened animals and Salmé was the only one to smile at her; though it was a poor enough effort and Hero saw that her hands were shaking and that she could not keep still, but like the rest of the women must walk nervously to and fro, jerking at the fastenings of her cloak and fidgeting with her ornaments.
Poor girl, thought Hero. No wonder the Seyyidas had so urgently desired her company on this venture! They certainly needed one cool Western head to provide moral support and a steadying influence, and she regretted that her lack of fluency in Arabic prevented her from taking immediate command of the whole affair. But since this was not possible, she contented herself with smiling reassuringly and exchanging calm greetings with any of the women she recognized, until told curtly by Cholé to veil her face and cover herself with her cloak.
“It is time we left,” said Cholé, and swept the whole party out; the women silent now except for the staccato slap of heelless slippers and the sound of quickened breathing. Salmé‘s nieces, who had brought their own retinue of slaves, were already waiting for them in the street outside, and the two processions of heavily veiled and shrouded figures merged together and made their way to the main entrance of the Heir-Apparent’s house.
The wind that fluttered the women’s dark draperies swayed the flames of the oil lamps burning outside the house, and sent the shadows of armed men leaping like acrobats across the high white walls as the advance guard from Beit-el-Tani reached the door, and were halted by the crossed muskets of loud-voiced soldiers. A moment later the night was full of turmoil, wrangling and noise, and Hero could see the silhouettes of heads crowding the lamplit squares of Bargash’s windows, as men in the besieged household leaned out to see the cause of the confusion.